Jojo's Bizarre Adventure: Amber Road
by Zanrai Fiction
Summary: In the year 2003, the Speedwagon Foundation launched an investigation into the Stand User population on the North American continent following incidents in Morioh, Japan and the Italian peninsula. In 2006, the journal of George Joestar II shed light on the Joestar family lineage. In 2007, the story of Bernadette Benson and Rico Mambo was told.
1. AMBER ROAD

**Jojo's Bizarre Adventure Part 5.5**  
 **Amber Road**

 _Author's Note: This account takes place between the events of Vento Aureo and Stone Ocean_

 _This story contains language, violent imagery, and some sexual references. Reader discretion is advised._

The following details are a narrative used to describe a portion of the confidential operation conducted by the Speedwagon Foundation to record and observe Stand users within the continent of North America. The operation began in 2003 following incidents that occurred in the city of Morioh, Japan and the Italian peninsula. At the request of researchers and shareholders, who saw a dramatic increase in the occurrence of the superhuman property known as Stand, a database was developed to understand the spread of the phenomenon and catalogue those affected.

Agents were dispersed throughout the continent to record any and all Stand users and Stand abilities, as well as detain users of Stand that were labeled as "delinquent" (such a label covers a wide variety of incidents, with a triage system installed to prevent dangerous individuals from committing further confrontations and rehabilitate innocent individuals who possess dangerous abilities).

In some events, the unique nature of a Stand requires further testing and categorization, along with the possibility of development. For that, the Speedwagon Foundation also provides Stand users with facilities and living situations for their best opportunity of providing protection. In any other case where the Stand user may be in danger, the Speedwagon Foundation elects to protect them to the fullest extent of their power.

Such is this, the account of the 2007 conflict that transpired throughout the continental United States, as detailed by the records of Agent Rico Mambo, SWID# 441868, and civilian Stand user Josephine "Bernadette" Benson.


	2. PROLOGUE

**PROLOGUE**

February 18, 2007

Chinatown, Los Angeles, CA

Against the cold and hazy night, North Spring Street looked to light the night with a Technicolor of senses. Chinese New Year was in full swing, and the constant waves of aromas and flavors and sounds turned the ever-popular region into a deluge of motion. People circulated from all the corners of Chinatown, and all but try to accommodate the introduction of hundreds, if not thousands, more from all across the Los Angeles basin. Against this cacophony was one man who chose to work on an assignment.

As he looked out on the Los Angeles River, the lone forty-five year-old man, decked in yellow teashade sunglasses, sat on the mostly dry ground, facing the chain-link fence. That historic culvert, so iconic in its cultural depiction in American film, that fed the Los Angeles River was for this night taken over by the local populace. Vendors ran up and down the mostly dry corridor, braying over the crowds in order to be heard. _Hmm. I wonder why people choose to yell in a situation like this. Surely, a sign or a billboard would be more of an eye catch. All you do by yelling is adding to the noise._

If there were any man who knew the nature of sound, it would be this lone man, a musician of thirty-four years. On nights like these he would sit in dens, surrounded by good men with crooked fingers. He would listen to a child trying to be heard and seen, an old soul making his hands dance in tandem. The haze of the dim lighting intermingling with the film of the liquor and its memories lingered. To work tonight, on a global holiday, made those memories even sweeter.

Though aged forty-five, he had the appearance of a young man near half his age. Thin and raggedy hair hung down to the nape of the neck in a dirty brown, dotted with flakes of dandruff. His skin was pocked and tanned by the sun which kept him company on his cross country journey. Behind his glasses were soft blue eyes, the color in flux with every passing hour. His clothes were an amalgamation of his New York upbringing and a West Coast shopping trip to fit his character. Lumberjack flannel and a sunset print T on top, black jeans and Converse on bottom.

He leaned to his right side and took inventory of his items for this mission. A small attache case held the contents of the mission. To the right in the grass was a bowl of noodles topped with pork loin he ordered from one of the stalls. It was one of his favorite dishes, but he still wondered if it was bad karma to eat pork in The Year of the Pig. He ate with abandon, having spent all day unwittingly starving himself in preparation to work. The broth and meat cut across the brisk night, and gave him renewed strength for what he was about to do.

Finishing his meal, he reached over and opened the case to survey the damage report. It would be the fifth time today he read the report back to front.

Two weeks ago, a sixteen year-old named Stephen Ellis from the Chinatown area reportedly manifested a Stand after he was ambushed by three members of a local gang. Security footage showed the victim rounding a corner being tailed by the culprits. After a period of time, the footage went white. According to police reports, the victim had not sustained injuries, but each of the gang members sustained second degree burns to the face and were blind for a week.

The man began to contemplate what he was about to walk into. _Most likely a Stand, but the issue comes from determining what type of power was used. According to injuries sustained by the gang members, a heat source radiated from the user's central position outward. The area where the Stand user was cornered is a back alley that services a restaurant and dry cleaners. After the security footage went white, both the owners of the restaurant and dry cleaners noted a power surge had caused a temporary blackout. Power was restored roughly five seconds after the footage went white._ _The Stand is clearly using an energy source as a weapon, but what type of energy makes all the difference in this case. I'll need to gain Stephen's trust before explaining the nature of the situation, or end up with a trip to the optometrist. Good thing I'm wearing sunglasses._

Closing the file, he picked up the attache case and left the culvert. Cutting across Chinatown was difficult with the sea of bodies, but eventually, he found his way through several shortcuts. The User lived in an apartment on Gin Ling Way, near one of the entrances to Chinatown. Outside the gate was a clear view of the parkway and Dodgers Stadium. As he made his approach, he found his way inside one of the storefronts, a jeweler's which had stood for thirty years. Navigating his way through crowds of partiers to the back of the store, he ducked inside the bathroom and dressed into the suit and raincoat that would give him the credibility he needed. According to his superiors, LAPD were investigating, but had not granted permission for any outside help. As such, this was a delicate operation. If the police decided to take another statement from Stephen while he was in, there would be no explaining this one away. Luckily, his superiors called ahead to say he was coming as the LAPD.

The man left the shop and rounded the corner onto Gin Ling Way. Removing his sunglasses and stowing them in his pocket, he approached the residence with caution. A light was on in the house, and he could hear a TV running in the background. He knocked on the door, steeling himself for what was about to go down.

He could hear several locks being undone, with only the chain lock remaining as the door opened. A black woman, roughly in her early forties, came to the door with a sleeping infant in hand, leering at the man with a rough look. He began the farce with grace, knowing full well a war was coming.

* * *

"Good evening, Mrs. Ellis. I'm Detective Girardi with the LAPD." He produced a fake badge given to him by his superiors. "I'm here to discuss the incident that your son..."  
"Hell. Look, officer. I've told what I know. My son is safe and sound, and I'm happy he's in his home tonight. Before you go and interrogate him further, I need you to know that I'm tired of this, and I want to put it past us. Isn't that enough? Huh?"

The man knew this would happen and continued uninterrupted. "I understand, but I'm not here to discuss the case any further. I'm with the Detective Bureau, and I only want to do a mental evaluation of your son."  
"You want to do what now?"  
"Ma'am, your son went through a traumatic experience, and though my expertise is with the mentally handicapped, I am a licensed clinician who can help Stephen deal with the incident in a healthy manner."

Mrs. Ellis softened slightly. "So you're not gonna push him for two hours like your friends down at precinct?"  
"This will take ten minutes at most, as I want this to possibly be the beginning of a series of therapy sessions. That is, unless I can clear Stephen tonight. If he is cleared within those ten minutes, it will go in the report, and chances look good you won't have the 'precinct' down anytime soon. That is, unless it's a bad time to talk."

As she looked down at the infant, the man could tell she was considering the offer. A Chinese New Year parade, complete with drums and dragons, could be heard in the background. Mrs. Ellis looked up with a hopeful, yet cautious, look. "Ten minutes."

She undid the chain lock and opened the door. The man could see she was readying for bed, as she placed the infant in a crib. The living room was set up like any other American apartment with yellow wallpaper, though perhaps smaller in order to account for the property area. The local news was on, providing a forecast for the Chinese New Year parades that would be going on throughout the week. Mrs. Ellis turned to face the man. "Stephen's doing his homework right now. I'll grab him," and she went up the stairs to the second floor.

 _Ten to one he's playing video games, as one does when you're that age._

The man could hear a shuffling a feet. Two figures descended, as he could see Stephen for the first time. Dressed in a orange t-shirt and white shorts (most likely sleepwear), the man could see there was still pain residing.

"Good evening, officer."  
A small chuckle for reassurance. "It's alright Stephen. I'm not with the precinct. My name is Detective Girardi, with the Mental Evaluation Unit of the Detective Bureau. Just checking in to see how you're doing"  
"Oh yeah, um... Good. Real good."  
"Is there anywhere we can talk for a few minutes?"  
Mrs. Ellis interjected. "We can sit in the kitchen. Just cleaned, so you're welcome to it." Turning to her son, she said, "Stephen, I'm putting Theo in my room. You okay with just taking some time with this gentleman?"  
"Yeah, Mom."  
She kissed his forehead. "Love you, Stephen."

She picked up the infant and ascended the staircase, a glimmer of tears in her eyes.

The man turned to Stephen and motioned to the kitchen. They both walked in and grabbed a seat. The man grabbed a notebook from his pocket, pen in coil. "Now, Stephen, we're going to perform a memory exercise. I'm going to ask you to recollect the memory of that night. Think deeply. I want you to close your eyes and breathe deeply."

The boy sat up in his chair and closed his eyes, beginning a rhythmic in and out of breath. Stephen put his glasses back on, and set to work.

"I don't want you to think about what the police asked you about the men. I want you to just to focus on what happened before the police arrived. Do you feel anything?"

Stephen hands started trembling. "I started think of my momma, and I feel... this warm feeling."  
"Is it a sudden feeling?"  
"Nah, it's like... from all around me, man. Like real low, then everywhere. I can see that Chinese restaurant... and the cleaners next door."  
The man leaned in. "What else do you see?"  
"I see... light." The breathing was starting to become faster.  
"Okay, that's good. Now, I want you to slowly return to a nice breathing pace."  
"''Kay."  
"So there's light? What else is there?"  
"I see this... bird. It's like a bird, but I never seen a bird like it... don't look real."

 _The Stand takes_ _the appearance of a bird and has something to do with warmth or light. That could work for now. If I report my initial finding, the boys back in New York can start monitoring and making calculations on what to do._

"Now, Stephen. I want you to come down. Let the light slowly fade away and come back to me. Back to your kitchen. You're in your kitchen, remember?"

He opened his eyes. He looked renewed, eons better than when they met eyes. With the initial report complete, the man addressed the boy.

"Stephen, what you experienced was nothing short of a breakthrough. It matters that you made it through that night. Someone, we don't know who, was watching over you." He sat forward in his chair. "Whenever you're having a rough day, I want you to think of the bird. You may find it to be comforting, and it doesn't have to involve that night. Just think of the bird, okay?"  
Stephen shuffled in his chair, looking as innocent as his younger brother. "Okay, detective."

The man could suddenly see the Stand behind. It was a miniature peacock, decked in white down and golden feathers, staring at the man with intent. Stephen turned around. "Detective, I can see that bird again. And I'm not sure how to say this, but it feels real."  
The man tried to play it off, knowing he had time to explain the nature of the Stand. "I'm glad to hear that it means that much to you."  
Stephen suddenly looked worried. "No, I mean, the bird. It's real."

This was a natural reaction for all new Stand users.

There was a crash outside. Suddenly, the lights in the kitchen surged and went out, dragging the rest of the house down with it. Only the peacock remained glowing, radiating a pure white energy. Stephen was taken aback in shock. There would be no more time to explain, as the man ducked under the table just before a strobe light went off in the room.

 _I was right. The Stand absorbs light and uses it as a weapon_ _._

* * *

As the light faded and the man crawled out from under the table, what he saw next made his skin crawl. He could see a figure in the street, looking through the living room window. As the lights came back on in the house, the man looked at Stephen, now half out of his chair. "Stephen, I'm here to tell you the bird is real. Just focus on it and stay put. It will keep you safe. Don't move and stay safe. If your mother comes down, tell her I got called away on assignment. Call this number tomorrow, and I'll spill everything. Got it?" He threw his business card on the table and ran through the house.

Bursting out of the front door, he could see a man in a baseball cap, jersey, and jogging pants dashing away. He gave chase, bursting onto the main street. He started to bob and weave through the crowd as a Chinese dragon danced through the narrow street. He focused only on the man, who was knocking down civilians. He started to reach for his badge, when he suddenly stopped himself.

 _I've already botched this assignment thanks to this clown. The last thing I need to do is spend a night in jail for impersonating an officer. These street are probably riddled with undercover cops_ _. I just need to get lucky._

Thankfully, the running figure ducked into an alleyway, possibly not knowing it was a dead end of garbage cans for the local businesses. As the man turned the corner, he could see the runner to the left, unable to jump the wall that partitioned the alley from the other side.

The man approached cautiously, only to have a pistol pointed in his face. "Stay outta this, man. I got no problem droppin' you. Ain't nobody gonna hear that shot tonight."  
"I don't care. All I'm telling you is stay away from the kid."  
"Shit, I can't do that, officer. It's the kid I want. He put three of my guys in the hospital. You think he gets to walk?"  
With a fervor in his voice, the man said, "Stay -away- from the kid."

The pistol was raised slightly, and cocked to the side. Before a shot could ring out, the man called for his Stand.

"JAZZ FUNERAL!"

A bolt of light surged from above the man's head and ripped the gun from the runner's hands. He cried out, not knowing the extent of the damage to his fingers. "What the fuck you just do to me?!"

The man stood in front of the runner and grabbed the jersey, watching his eyes in shock as a solid punch was delivered to his sternum. "I'm only going to say this one more time. Back off of the kid, or I come back and finished what I started. That goes for you and anyone else who even stares at the kid."

The runner grinned and said wheezing, "You think I'm scared of you? I get why you're acting high and mighty, Mr. LAPD. But get this right. Ain't gonna look good when the news run a story about some 5-0 bitch goin' off, making that police brutality front and center."

It was time for the man to be amused. "You think I'm LAPD? I'm not even Detective Bureau, which means I've got you. You lose."

The time was short-lived, as a manic grin lit up the runner's face. He shoved the man away and a knife suddenly appeared in his hand. "Wrong answer!"

The man shielded himself, dodging the runner's hand. With enough distance between them, he exclaimed his Stand's name again. "JAZZ FUNERAL!" The knife was blasted from the runner's hand, leaving his head wide open.

 _He gets my full strength tonight._ Just as the right hook was about to connect, the man tried to backpedal from his mistake.

Throughout the night, there was one consistency. From the moment he entered Chinatown, it began. When he ordered the pork bowl, when he sat facing the famous culvert, when he wandered through the crowds, when he entered the Ellis residence, when he chased the runner.

 _I've been listening to loud noises from the parades all night long_.

The man held back at the last second, but it was too late to prevent damage. The resulting punch sounded identical to a cattle prod, and could have very well had the same force. The runner's head snapped back, and his body fell back onto a pile of garbage bags. The man stood there, ragged breathing, sweat pouring from his brow.

The man put his fingers to the runner's neck. There was a pulse, but it was faint. He listened in for breathing, and found there was a small wind coming from his nose. He had held back just enough to deliver the force of a strong taser, and the runner had been flash banged into an unconscious state.

The man fully realized that had he not held back, he would be standing in a alleyway red with claret.

 _Chances are he's not going to remember anything from tonight. If the police find him, they will probably write it off as drugs or alcohol. If he does wake up_ _tomorrow, it's going to be from a cold pail of water. In any case, I'm going to help him wake up in a better place. It's only fair._

The man dragged the runner's limp body, and began the long trek to find a hotel.

* * *

February 19, 2007

Chinatown, Los Angeles, CA

It was eight in the morning when Rico Mambo, in an LA hotel lobby, called his supervisor in New York. The company to which he pledged loyalty, The Speedwagon Foundation, were not going to like the results. The answering machine picked up, stating the supervisor wasn't in. Rico grabbed his bridge in half disgust, half exhaustion, and said, "Cedric, I know you're awake. It's Rico."

The phone picked up and a hushed but quick voice answered. "Rico. I been waiting on your call. How was Chinatown?"  
"You're not going to like this. I may have traumatized the kid."  
There was silence on the other end. For a good ten seconds, Rico could hearing heaving breathing before the man said, "Go on."

Rico recounted the experience when Stephen, and how the stand was a peacock that took in energy from light sources and could weaponize them. He then recounted the runner, making sure to not include his own temper that nearly killed a man, and his night trying to find a hotel.

"Jesus, Rico. You don't have these kinds of incidents. I'm glad it's resolved, but..."  
"I know, I know. But it's not resolved yet. I'm calling the kid today as it is. I'm going to try to arrange a meeting for tomorrow to explain everything outside of his home when his mom isn't around."  
Cedric in New York grunted a bit. "Hate to break it to you, but you're not going to get that shot."  
Rico lowered his voice, so as to not sound crazed to hotel staff. "Cedge, I left a kid that just found out he can summon a lightbulb bird from out of the ether. I have a man unconscious, hopefully not a coma, chilling in a hotel room on my card. LAPD _will_ be on my case like a cold. You better give me the mother of all reasons as to why I shouldn't just plop my ass down for the next three months, providing damage control."

"We located the false Joestar, and you're our closest operative to the area."

Rico turned sheet white and just about dropped his phone onto the floor.

 _The false Joestar. After four years of waiting with our thumbs in the air, waiting for the wind to blow, they show their face_.

Still in shock, all Rico could hear was a man who was 2,451 miles due east repeating the word, "Hello?", as if he himself was just waking from a coma.


	3. Stand Report 646: Manfred Mann

**FROM THE FILES OF THE SPEEDWAGON FOUNDATION**

 **STAND REPORT #646: MANFRED MANN**

Stand - Manfred Mann (Designated name, no proper name established)  
User - Stephen Ellis

Appearance: An albino peacock adorned with jewelry on its head.

Power: B  
Speed: C  
Range: D  
Durability: D  
Precision: D  
Developmental Potential: E

Ability: Absorbs light from sources in immediate proximity, providing a glow that concentrates on the Stand. Can expel the light as an attack, causing sudden exposure to brightness and heat.


	4. THE JOURNAL OF GEORGE JOESTAR II

**FROM** **THE FILES OF THE SPEEDWAGON FOUNDATION**

 **SELECTED EXCERPTS FROM THE JOURNAL OF GEORGE JOESTAR II (February 1909 - March 1910)**

February 24, 1909

Land ho! Our steam ship sailed into the Gulf of St. Lawrence today, so our traveling party took leave from our refuge below to enjoy the crisp sea air. We took in the array of port towns dotting the coastline, while enjoying recreation on deck. Our boat was tied at another port near the mouth of the bay, so we should expect one more night on the water. I shall be gladdened by this fact, as I have grown weary of the monotonous seafarer's life. We arrive in the port city of Les Escoumins upon the morrow.

* * *

February 25, 1909

So this is Les Escoumins. It lives up to the reputation of Canada's frigid winters with pomp and malice. Upon exiting the boat, we found the overnight weather to be monstrous, bringing the Northern winds into the channel that feeds into the heart of the country. We, proud countrymen and scholars, were undaunted and as warm a patriot against the struggle. By this measure, we quite nearly leapt with joy onto the wooden docks. At long length, the ground beneath us remained firm.

It was so, however, that Harold took a time to adjust to this solid ground, having to set about in exhaustion on a crate that nearly ruined his coat before we arrived at our destination. The thought! We identified our passports to the captain of the vessel and the guard of the port, and set foot in Canada.

The town's central marketplace, not forty paces from the docks, is agog with mercantilism and trade of all sorts. Furs from creatures of the Northwest Territories, woodcraft made from Hudson Strait timber, a veritable cornucopia of dried wild plants and meats. That stands to reason given the berth of resources, all spread throughout the boreal.

For such an important locale, to know it is little more than a fishing village built of naught but timber is quite peculiar. My messmates and I went about the town, in search of residence to procure a night's rest. A second steamship would arrive in the morn to deliver us to our destination, the city of Montreal.

It was Peter who found a covert inn, seen to by a kindly widow and her son, a buckskin in the fishing industry. We paid for boarding and went out to enjoy the day. There was little else except a tavern and smoker's den in town; in spite of this, we spent much of our day busy without the need of such vice (it was planned that such vice would be indulged in Montreal). We separated after a lunch, and I found myself engrossed in the beauty of the region via its naturally formed paths.

We adjourned at the inn upon the seventeenth hour, and took our supper an hour later. It was clear to me young Matthias had spent a considerable time in the smoker's den, evident from the vapors coming off of his person. I gave him a stern reminder to budget for such frivolity (he has borrowed from me in the past, and I do keep a record of such favors).

The meal consisted of a sumptuous trout paired with a fruit compote as a digestif, both pickled from the year before. Recreation was story telling by a fireplace and an early bed was had by all.

* * *

February 26, 1909

We have made landfall in Montreal.

The steamship taking us to the city made docking early in the seventh hour. To have gotten up at such a time as the very start of dawn, as the sun was peaking downriver towards the sea, was no matter to us. Our boarding school days prepared us for such a time. As it was the nature of the locals, they met us with a selection of aught that was in the stockroom for the day's journey. We closed the accounts, and made haste towards the docks. We arrived at a time befitting, and set off without incident.

I took leisure with my writing, so as to feed the spirit with prose. A suggestion that Mother gave me before I left for St. John's. So far, it has guided me in trying times. I was sensible to the scene being amicable, but I am nothing if not a creature of habitual practice. If so, it did well to pass the time before our arrival in the city soon after the noon hour.

Such a magnitude of post-industrial ingenuity this city proposes! The architecture of the type is uniform in purpose, with rows of residences dotting the skirts. By the inner crosshatch of lanes some meters inland, such order is established in deigning both room for commerce and residence. It was just outside of this, in the lower dwellings, where we made landfall in port.

Our captain stated the bridge we viewed as we docked was Victoria, in honor of Her Royal Majesty, the soon late Queen of Country. We disembarked, and lo, Harold once more found himself dilatory with a peevish gait. It is not by my word, but should our mutual friend be called to serve, his superior officers may accuse him of pusillanimity. How he so was born for the trade of accounting.

The complexion of the former time led us to forego a search of lodging, and take in that which was close in neighborhood. Firstly, we encountered the village of Westmount, where several landmarks rose in high regard. Our captain mentioned prior to take a carriage through Little Burgundy, so as to avoid the community of Saint-Henri. It was, by his words, "a hole of sin, by which to affront the nature of good morality".

Duly noted, we took a excursion through the city and arrived in Westmount for a late tea. We stopped by a quaint outdoor eatery and ordered a serving of sandwiches. Such was the fine flavor of the pickled ingredients, when compared to the noon sun against the snow covered surface. Taking our leave of the scene, we toured North. Peter pointed in the distance a steeple, to which we traveled towards with peaked interest. Upon arrival, it was found under construction. We were informed by locals it was to be the future Saint Joseph's Oratory of Mount Royal. When complete, it will become the largest church in the Canadian provinces. Such a fine and Christian name, Joseph. I so hope to have a son in my mortal time, so as to bless him with such a name.

By the time we took leave, we had been hampered by the waning light of day, with no reserve of lodging. As such, we flew back North to the Auberge du Vieux-Port, the first of major expenditures in our holiday. This hotel provided an effect of luxury we had not felt since leaving London, and to once again know comfort as such was a welcome respite. We were greeted in the atrium by a harridan whose accent placed her somewhere in the Calais region, most likely a remnant of a bygone flight from French shores. We showed passports and acquired one suite for our group of four.

Dinner was taken as a four course meal, with the menu consisting of several entrees. Myself, I relished upon a bison tartare aller-retour, the first time I was to experience the meat. Aperitif was a full-bodied Inscreparse Vino circa 1694 from the hotel's private wine collection. Hors d'oeuvres were potato croquettes served with a Béchamel sauce, and dessert was a selection of pastries with coffee and an imported sherry. Bed was again taken early, as my compatriots planned the morrow's agenda.

* * *

March 24, 1909

It has been a month prior since my last entry, and yet I have learned so much of the Montreal _joie de vivre_ , it has rapidly altered my view of the world.

Firstly, I must comment upon the act of the trend called Flânerie, as for the first week of my holiday, it was the primary way to expel boredom in wanderlust. The very act of strolling through a space is all but designed for such urban growth as Metropolitan London or Paris. The circular nature of aimlessly cataloguing every instance your eyes see is therapeutic as prose, and stands as a manner to spend a day in total harmony with one's self. By word of friends, they have commented by saying the _libertiê_ it provides is invigorating. Having never been afforded time to do so left me unable to perform such a feat _._ Following the third day of our holiday, I elected to leave my group and see the city.

To that I say the city of Montreal has little to no circular growth, having previously mentioned its crosshatch road system. In attempting a stroll through its ranks, I was discommoded with not only this difficult layout, but in addition, the sight that no one should afford to suffer when attempting Flânerie. Walking traffic.

The main streets were just as busy as the marketplace of Les Escoumins, only to a much bigger scale given the metropolitan area. The tumult of noise from the carriages, callers, and the bric-a-brac of the city was overwhelming. Surely, I have been to London and felt its warm presence. None of which can compare to be in the thick of Montreal with no transportation. It is inevitable that I would have visit this crosshatch several times over to identify all of the sights. Consider this not a denouncement of the practice of Flânerie, as my first experience was refreshing. To have been provided such freedom is a exigency of want. Yet, both the second and third attempts to perform similar actions gave me little more than gripe. To have limited myself to Little Burgundy and Westmount felt conflicting in nature with such an endeavor. To that, I promised myself a new outlook.

Today's most recent excursion gave me new confidence in Montreal's identity. Before departing, I selected a less fine form of habiliments, not dissimilar to our winter schoolboy uniforms, so as to not dirty my finer linens. I left before the others rose, and with a meal of slapjack and coffee, I left Auberge du Vieux-Port on the seventh hour. As I ambled about again through Little Burgundy. I chose to adhere to no sense of direction, choosing the bystreets as random. By noon, I returned to the scene of our docking, and visited the fish market. Such a rhythmic calling of the wares was soothing.

Further south onward, I came to an older section of the city where the architecture appeared more of a Gothic and Victorian quality. Upon entering a bookseller's shop and purchasing a historical work on Montreal, I came to learn most of the architecture built at this time was under British rule. Most evident was the Church of Notre-Dame, meant to mimic the face of the icon of Paris. As it was so open to the public, I interned myself to enjoy the silence set aside from the day. Little did I know the doors of sanctuary would be my gate of the horn.

Upon entering the nave of the structure, I was taken with beauty. The height of the structure loomed over my person, as though the very apex was concealing a portal into the pearly gates. The stained glass was so unlike the type found in the countryside, here deep in hue and cascading the full spectrum of colour. The statues of saints and blessed holy men imposed their history upon the scene like a wax seal. The rows of pews stretched on, leading to the triumph of the altar. It was no less impressive than the preceding spectacle, emblazoned with gold leaf and marble from the finest Italian manufacturers.

I sat in one of the pews far from a congregation of worshipers and opened my thoughts to prayer. In the moment I quieted my heart, in the very nature of silence, a song cut through. It was quiet at first but grew in confidence. I could note the direction of the words coming from behind me. In curiosity, I shifted my body towards the sound. It was the Ave Maria, being sung by a handsome woman in white who stood in the center aisle. So was this rendition stirring to my very soul beyond anything the physical building could provide. Her features were all but secluded so I could only make out the hint of tawny locks from beneath the veil. She had donned a masque and white gloves to hide her flesh from sight. I was graveled to guesses. Perhaps an incident left her disfigured. Perhaps her form was disheveled from birth. It was rude to assume this woman's reason, so the train of thought was ceased. It can be warranted that in comparison to the walls surrounding her, the woman singing was an angel descended.

By the time she had concluded, the churchgoers began to form the tattle of future nightly conversation. She could have been talk of the town, but in an instant she was guaranteed that ignoble honor.

It was by everyone's shock that the woman who had so been a blessing removed her masque to reveal she was a Negro - in a church of the community of Ville-Marie. So taken aback were they by her choice to present her face that they had little time to react when she curtsied towards the altar and proceeded to performed several acrobatic maneuvers towards the door. With a solid kick strong enough to fling the ingress open, she left as silently as she came into the sanctuary. Truly this creature dressed in white was evidence of the shocking New Woman.

It was by her this place of worship was made into a Temple of Immensity for the world and the _Fin de siècle_. It was in this moment, the pinch of the game, that I knew she was to be my great mystery I had craved. Montreal has become my muse, and I will find this specter once again; perchance by the grace of God; perchance by hammer and tongs.

I have decided, upon this very night, to commit something to train. All walks thereafter to one place and one place alone. To find this "affront to morality", I will have to descend into the ranks of Saint-Henri.

* * *

April 23, 1909

My mother once told me of an event that occurred in my late father's life. In the years before their marriage, the man named Jonathan Joestar was attending to an incident wherein his father, my grandsire, had taken ill. This man was my namesake, and I wear this as a badge of honor. The incident was caused by Dio Brando, who has been painted as a wicked man since his death, favorably taken in by the Joestars with the passing of his own father. He ruthlessly abused good intention back and forward and had forsaken the honor of everyone he knew. At some time, he had been slowly poisoning my grandsire in an act of demency. It was this incident, that led to my father entering London's infamous Ogre Street in a valiant effort to obtain an antidote. My father, whatever the stakes, was undeterred in purpose, and was able to battle the reputation of Ogre Street. In doing so, he met a man named Robert E.O. Speedwagon who has since become a figurehead to me, in the absence of my late father.

To this end, I saw my descent into Saint-Henri as a way to only glimpse upon the nature of man my father saw that night on Ogre Street. My endeavor was lesser in nobility and necessity, but equivalent in its Kiplingesque form of adventure and Machenesque nature of the unknown. For this, I had to take special precaution.

My mates were beginning to find my Flânerie habit quite peculiar, so on the date of April 2nd, I confirmed to them my intent to stay at Auberge du Vieux-Port. They left at eight in the morning for a meeting with acquaintances in the town of Chambly, across the St. Lawrence River. Following their departure, I descended to the lobby where I purchased this morning's issue of The Montreal Gazette. One of the stories depicted read "MONTREAL GHOST - NEGRO WOMAN IN WHITE DESCENDS UPON NOTRE DAME CHURCH", and a further description of the event. This woman had become the talk of the town.

I folded the paper and took leave of the hotel wearing my lesser habiliments, fully intent on purchasing new items. Firstly, I took breakfast at a café which was a meager meal of cretons on toast and coffee. Leaving the establishment, I rushed southward towards St. Cunegonde, which bordered on Saint-Henri. I ducked inside a linen shoppe and acquired my disguise.

By the time I had prepared my purchase, I had acquired a tow shirt, overalls, and oakum stockings. Simple enough to hide in the shadows, but fine enough to maneuver throughout all of Montreal. To complete the illusion, I removed an ascot cap from my breast pocket and stuffed it onto my head. With my trick complete, I left in haste towards Saint-Henri.

Immediately, I could see the shift of the interests in the way the mass handled themselves compared to the other quarters. For one, the assortment of faces and peoples was astounding. Irishmen, Chinamen, and assorted Western Europeans swarmed in harmony and hunger. Porters and dockworkers who were physically as imposing as the strongmen in the county sideshow, bedesmen decked in brown cloaks deigning for those who clung to their bosom, and odd sorts of dipsomania were the unruly lads of this, to borrow a phrase, Cockney school. The building faces were relatively new compared to the city, having only been established in The Year of Our Lord 1875. Beyond the image of the worker's spirit, the vendors of neat and flank freshly slaughtered from the morning.

I wandered in total anonymity for what seemed hours, if only to gain my footing in this new found power. Such freedom, such vitae! There were people in the road who peered beyond my eyes and see my green nature. The hard-earned and stern faces were a mix of fury and pity. I felt cold in thinking they could only wager why I was here. _Surely any man of his caliber is in our presence for nefarious purposes._ I kept my wits and soldiered. Try as I might in all the stores, churches, and dens, I found no evidence to the existence of the Montreal Ghost. No woman in white. No Ave Maria. It was around the hour of 17:00 when I made my return.

For days on end, I have remained behind at the hotel to change my appearance and return to Saint-Henri. By daytime, I am a mild mannered dandy who, by way of Roman rule, am not fit to be called citizen. By nighttime, I return to the world of my peers to dine and galavant on delicacy. It has come to my attention the way I choose my times is far from ideal. Saint-Henri and the remaining cavalcade of the lower crust comes alive at night, where danger most lurks. The visage I was seeing was one of day-to-day livery. To descend into darkness, I have to tread into a literal ebon. I have to find Ogre Street.

* * *

April 29, 1909

As it came to pass on this day, I started by joining Harold at the crack of dawn to break the fast. Prior to the excursion of our holiday, he had taken a temporary interest in the frock. As such he remained predominantly busy reading material from the Université de Montréal on the subject and visiting the Oratory. He planned to attend the seminary at St. Mary's College, Oscott upon his return to his home in Birmingham.

We met in the lobby and upon seeing my visage, he instantly remarked on my degradation in appearance and habitual nature of exeunt from the group for the past month. Though I have thoroughly ran his reputation roughshod in earlier entries, I recall his acute eye of detail. I began to explain a half-truth of sorts by spinning a tale of seeing the Montreal Ghost shortly after her appearance in Ville-Marie and how she was a muse to me (Romanticism by nature is a talent of the Joestar family). Without discussing the entry into Saint-Henri, I even fed him a stanza of prose to capstone the argument. By my conclusion he was agog in shock. Confused as he was by my turn of nature, Harold stated he was rapt with attention and that my tale had the linguistic bouquet of a Penny Dreadful with the trimming and command of a Conan Doyle fiction. Whether it was a Holmes or Challenger tale was yet unknown. I offered to accept his companionship in each rendezvous, with full knowledge that he would decline my offer of an ersatz nature.

We spent the day visiting the Oratory once more and took our tea at a small open air café.

By 18:00, everyone had returned for supper. It was at this time I informed the group of dinner plans made with a group of exceptional gentlemen at the famous Bonsecours Market. A mighty boast no doubt, and the group only had quizzical looks and gladdened remarks. Matthias went so far as a call for a toast. "To George, our mutual vagabond of Montreal. May he rub elbows with those Frenchie _chicards_ and hold himself high enough to leap into their coffers." Quite the title, mutual vagabond. We shared a brandy and I retired to my room to apply my disguise, sharing a passing glance with Howard who appeared tired. The night was crisp as the twilight of the Island of Saints. To combat this, I applied a surtout and descended into the atrium. On my path to the exit our friend the harridan (I came to learn her name as Mme. Guillaumette Jean) craned at her counter as if she were a monarch high upon her throne calling judgement. She called me to her, and I redirected my course. Mme. Jean recalled in careful English the two months I knew her as a series of coming and goings, all hours and all days. She had grown tired of not knowing my ways, and to hold me to my word or suffer obloquy. In closure, I divulged I had found a young woman to spend time with, and was on my way to see her again.

Her face softened as she wistfully looked off. " _Ce soir, soyez bénis_. _C'est un amour si jeune_." To think this matron was as Romantic as my illusory persona. Mme. Jean shuffled me off, onto the streets of that Canadian jewel. It was to my surprise that as I left the building, it came as a shock that the lies were becoming numerous.

It was coming on half past twenty hours when I descended into Saint-Henri. I recalled an anecdote my mate Fred told me before I left for Montreal. In 1907, he departed for the city of New Orleans in the Southern United States. To his knowledge, each night in the city was piled high with sin and debauchery. The rows of brothels and speakeasies lit the night like a staircase on the finest ballroom in London. The streets were choked, blinded by wanton desires that faded when sated by morning light. The music of American jazz embraced the hearts of every lonely patron and stirred the menagerie like a stew (I believe the phrase he used was 'gumbo'). It was the beating heart of the entire nation.

In the nightly streets of Saint-Henri, there was no heart or soul. Only beggars who failed in the waking hours and oafs ripe with seasoning from the afternoon. Only the buildings held onto something very real as sounds of cheer and merriment could be heard. I entered into the first dive I could find, making sure to not bump shoulders with a shambling patron who was being escorted by a mate.

Inside, the New Orleans spirit had been transplanted into this cozy establishment. Every seat was occupied and the floor was fit to burst. The live band, a folksy was not to my ear, but had clear talent that affected the area. I sashayed onto the bar, and gained the attention of the bartender, a regular Ivan Ivanovich. His head was smooth as a cannonball and the mustache he had cultivated was like the horns of a bull. Laying his hands on the counter, he stared me down with an animalcule of gall in the corner of the sclera. I order a bottle for the night, and paid the $25 owed. He rewarded my exchange with a green fifth filled to the neck with a liquid the color of broth. One sniff to test, and I knew I was far away from that import from so long ago (and $25 was mighty steep for a product that I could only discern as a swirled chimera of French wine, Welsh sherry, Caribbean rum, and a base note of raw ethanol siphoned from one of those Ford auto engines).

It was twenty-one hours in the evening before I left, bottle in tow. My illusion was completed in the pitch. I appeared as a common urchin, and with a swig of the bottle began to feel it as well. Up and down the streets I frequented in the past month made grotesque in evening's cloak. The amount of bodies lining the streets made the scene appear like a war-worn triage. Every storefront still held a precious jewel of New Orleans in stock, but to my trained ear none held my ghost's voice.

Sore onto two hours, I started to realize this may have been a fool's errand. I became so foolishly desperate that in my state, I peered beyond Saint-Henri and dove further West, racing the Sun.

I had never come this way in my travels and was fervently lost.

The street signs told me this was Lachine, a borough of Oriental workers and other sorts. Here lay downstairs operations, the cleverly disguised smoker's dens, the last of the Opium Empire, now hounded by Canadian law and justice. I was only to believe my ghost would not find herself in such descent. Taverns and pubs still lined one street, so in effort I walked into a local situation named Forty-Eight.

It was quiet if only for the atmosphere was decidedly muted. I took a seat in a booth with my bottle of swill. Unlike the night, there was a warmth akin to a wood stove on a December night. The creaking timbers of the structure spoke it's age, it's wisdom. A player piano in the corner tapped out a quiet melody, while the bartender was a upright Irishman cleaning a mug. Not many were in attendance, but enough to know that comfort was in full abundance. I desired comfort at a time like this above all else. This was all familiar.

I went the bar and ordered a glass of Scotch. He stared my figure down and could tell I was hurting in spirit. I hadn't taken glance at my appearance recently so I could very well have been trounced by night and gaunt with the figure of a tight scratch. He poured a glass and with a down of the drink, I returned to my booth. From the window, I could see there came a _serein_ from outside. Beautiful in its composure, it led to a great calm washing over me. I felt as if this night had led to this moment, this pinnacle of peace. Even if I failed to meet with the ghost tonight, this trip was not lost. I began to stand to address the matter of the player piano and ask if it was able to be played when

I saw the ghost.

Around the corner of the pub, she came into view from outside the window. Her white dress unmistakable, her saintly gait composed. She was my muse, and I had found her in pure chance. The bottle of swill was knocked to the ground, as I could feel my body surging, mauger my fatigue. My consciousness could feel my body dragging ahead as I burst from the door to see her walking in the mist. She turned left into an alley, to which my movements mirrored her intent. As I rounded the corner, my eye caught her figure.

If one were to see that first glance of her as I did, they would take it to be a sign that the Virgin Mother had descended from on high. In the soft falling of rain, a corona formed around her head illuminated by the gaslight above. The glow of tranquility starkly enhanced her expression as a pout with genteel purpose. She scanned me in the same manner a headmaster identifies the rude child in his classroom. Her dress was a ethereal being holding its own magnitude, like the sail of a ship in harbor domineering the cityscape. It was in her silence that I had to show who I was as well as my intent.

I cleared my throat and, to my recollection, greeted and addressed her with common civility. She replied with indifference. Furthering the matter, I proceeded with, "My name is George Joestar II, son of Jonathan and Erina of House Joestar. May I trouble you for a moment?" Still, indifference.

"Are you the same woman who, for aught I know, grabbed my attention a month ago in the Church of Notre-Dame in the Ville-Marie? For if so, then I congratulate you for nothing less than a beautiful performance."

She looked again at me with an inquisitive tilt. It was then that she spoke. "If you liked that, you should see me tonight."  
"Pray tell, where shall you perform?"  
"You're looking at it."

The structure of Forty-Eight still faced to the left. It was nearing the witching hour and I was still fit to return to Auberge du Vieux-Port. Be it what it would, I confirmed this sentiment. "I shall very much enjoy your talent this evening. To which I say, God be with ye until we meet again." I retread my steps towards the door of the facility, only to be halted by a force.

A man stood at the end of the alley, clearly as toxified as the bottle of alcoholic stew I purchased earlier in the night. He was no mountain man, but his face was as hard as stone and his body was set in a stance of swagger laced with malice. "Well, well, my good chap. Been trouncing around all of creation, have we? Clearly fraught in the cold rain, are we? You're no more than a pompous ass, come dancing along the street, pronouncing about with a sack of gold. I knew the second you stood outside this pub with a bottle of that old Sinner's Bisque (clearly the name of the vile drink) in a damn Shakespeare getup that you were easy pickings. And here I find you, begging like a prick at the feet of a whore!"

My neck chilled at the word and I chose to hold him to his honor. "You have insulted this woman with your ill temperament and vexation. I will forgive this slight that you chose to target me as a victim of robbery, but not against her. You will apologize immediately for your ill words and leave at once."  
"Or what? You're going to defend that bitch and..."  
The ghost spoke in turn to this man, her voice becoming deepened in focus. "I'll let you know, you slack-ass chump, that I don't need anyone to fight my battles. I've even seen you 'round these parts 'round this time. Drunk as a skunk. You can't fight and you know it. You come at me, and I'll show you what the hell I've got."

To this exchange, I state that even though the ghost was violent in language, I felt kindred in her ways. However, my mother would have surely taking a spell to this attitude.

The gruff stranger spoke again. "I know damn well you can fight. Every trick in this city has a knife or club hidden somewhere. I want this bastard here and now, just so I can prove to him he shouldn't have come tonight." With that, he lunged forward towards me, helter skelter and war cry abound.

I chose to sidestep him, but his erratic movements caught me off-guard. His fist collided with my arm, careening a spark of pain down through my fingers. I grabbed in habit, only to have him collide full body into me. I was pressed against a wall, my lower half nearly crushed under the weight of the drunk. I saw him raise his fists and bring them down upon me like a crazed animal. My head was jerked and pushed into the ground with blunt force, my brain wailing in agony. To the right of the confrontation, I could see the woman grab an item and charge the attacker. As he continued his barrage, I saw the glint of metal as the man howled. A small knife had been stuck in his back as she backed off.

"You fucking bitch! Fucking stick me, will you!?" and he leapt off me to charge her.

In a normal situation, I would have lay in that alley and let the pain swallow. Yet, I seemed to recall a moment in time I shared with my mother when I was a child.

 _I can see the crisp summer morning, my mother staring off onto the grounds of the estate. I'm playing in the yard when I hear her crying. Curious, I leave my games of imagination and approach her._

 _"Mother, why do you cry? This day is beautiful."  
"Oh, George. I think of your father and how you may one day be like him."  
"Will I go on adventures like the ones you tell me at night?"  
"I pray you do not, George. It was for this reason he is not here to see you."  
"Mother, how did my Father come to pass?"  
_

 _It is with great strength she recalls the day my father passed on from this world. "Your father died in the most gallant of ways. He chose to give his life in hopes you and I would survive in this world. To this end, he was the bravest man I ever knew."  
_

 _I ponder this for a moment, before stating, "Mother, don't worry. I will defend you."_

 _"I will defend you."_

As the man charged the ghost, I stood upright and firm, blood leaking from my forehead and into my eyes. Bones had been shattered and crushed, and yet I felt a well of energy come from within me, like the warmth of the Montreal bars lending their memories in my favor. As if to signal my presence, our attacker halted his advance and turned to face me. "You still want more? You glutton. Stay there and die!"

As he charged, I crouched down to see a horrified look on the woman's face from behind his form. _I will defend you_.

I jumped into the air with the last of my physical strength and spun into the air, grabbing the knife in the man's back in midair. In that instant, I felt nothing. My breathing was halted. My pain was dulled out. Within me, a voice cried out.

A surge of energy came cascading through my arm and charged against the knife. The attacker screamed torturously into the night. At this point, the fight alerted patrons within Forty-Eight, who came to see the commotion.

Still, the attacker tried to counter by ripping the knife from his back and charging again. With nothing left, I squared my stance and wound up. As he fell upon me with the knife, I collided my closed fist with his cheek. Too late, I was too believe, as the weapon entered my left shoulder. Yet, I had finally overreached this man to his breaking point. My fist carried him into the building's wall, where again the surge of energy met his face. This time, he flew away and into the street. The gathered crowd dove away in fear. Having felt punishment enough, our attacker fled, licking the wounds he had sustained.

Looking into my hands, there was a sense of wondering what had just transpired. I looked into the eyes of the woman I had so long looked for. In her countenance there was a great deal of shock, to be assured. However, I could see an unknown emotion, clouded in the ways of the night. A phenomenon I never truly understood in that moment. Some day, I may full harrow up the ramifications of what transpired this night.

To the time of writing, it is now six in the morning. I am staying the night in a room above the Forty-Eight. It is time to sleep.

* * *

 **Speedwagon Foundation Note: The journal of George Joestar II onward is severely incomplete in it's history. Upon discovering the journal, several entires were found to be torn, saturated and burned to a near unrecognizable state. The cause of the destruction of evidence is unknown. To our confusion, no records or copies were made to sustain the journal's contents before it's ruin. The following entries are the recreations of the salvageable notes recovered in the preservation process.**

* * *

April 30, 1909

My ghost is one Victoria Benson of Lachine. Following our torrid encounter in the alleyway of Forty-Eight, she recounted the event in great detail in the morning. I have realized greatly I have underestimated this woman. Both a spirit of holy vigor and a fighter of vicious conviction.. A doctor continued to see to my head wounds with Victoria checking in from time to time...

* * *

May 2, 1909

My simpler wounds have healed... spent the day with Matthias, Peter, and Harold. I explained to them my injuries were incurred during the Bonsecours Market party during a frightful incident involving the's host German Shepherd and a bevy of serving dishes... spoke with Mme. Jean when I returned to Auberge de Vieux-Port.. retired to bed, only to hear a small knock on my window...

* * *

May 10, 1909

Though I would have previously ill-advised my return to a realm of injury, I made my way to... following the given instructions... past a sea of people gathered outside the Church of Notre-Dame. I crossed the streets... to the time of 16:00... Forty-Eight... The bartender looked at the last of my injuries... There she was, the ghost Victoria Benson... first time I would get to... as I fondly remembered that March afternoon, her voice cascaded like the rivers of the Canadian provinces...

* * *

June 14, 1909

...I will stay in Canada temporarily following... not complete. I will temporarily work at... Auberge... Mme. Jean has noticed...

* * *

July 15, 1909

...I met with her again... I continued to learn of her nature... South... freedom from bondage... We took a dinner at a Lachine café...

* * *

August 12, 1909

She haunts... He face... The spell...

* * *

November 17, 1909

I shall... I took her to the café... the lake... though it was madness... she was... I was... for we were so madly...

* * *

 **Speedwagon Foundation Note: Upon our investigation into George Joestar II, we discovered his engagement and eventual marriage to Victoria Benson of Montreal. Between January and February 1910, there were no journal entries. The last entry on March 19, 1910 reads as follows:**

Victoria, my love, war is at my doorstep.

 **George Joestar II received a letter that day from his friends of the initial Canadian excursion that the European Theater was coming to a close and war was on the brink. On April 29, 1910, Mr. Joestar boarded a steamer to London, never to return to Canada. The two messaged through a private telegram line so as to keep their arrangement a secret until Joseph could assure his return to Canada. They sent the occasional letter. In February 1911, Victoria Benson received correspondence from Mr. Joestar.**

To Victoria, my wife and muse,

By the hand of time I curse my fate and all that shall befall this world in the transpiring years. Even as you receive this letter, our united world may be torn asunder.

I pray all is well in the Canadian provinces, for The British Empire is upon the razor's edge. War with Germany and The Ottoman Empire seems inevitable should one notice the signs. By the extent, the Crimean War was but a glimmer into the nature of man's desire of self-destruction.

I shall hope to return in time to fight in the war in the Canadian Army for king and country. In time, however, my mother has taken ill, and I shall be by her bedside until she recovers.

As I began to drift into slumber last night, I recalled the night we spent dancing at Forty-Eight after Leary closed the bar. For once, I felt that life was meant be this transcendent. You were the catalyst of change in my life. Before we held each other close, a spark of light danced between our fingers. So entwined were we that such an inexplicable phenomenon was all but left to imagination.

Victoria, I know what our life together has been. So much of my our experience will be clouded by the times, and how we as husband and wife are seen. You came from a life that ridiculed beauty, that mocked brilliance. No more shall that be the case.

Though war will come as a horseman and trials shall engulf the planet in turmoil, I will love you. Always and forever. Damn the man who dares to reach into our hearts. We will guide ourselves through the dark, side by side, as equals.

By the by, I will return.

Your devoted husband,

George Joestar II

 **Ten days later, Victoria sent a telegram to London.**

TO GEORGE JOESTAR II STOP

I HAVE GIVEN BIRTH TO A DAUGHTER STOP

NOW TWO MONTHS PRIOR STOP

I HAVE SPENT MY LAST SAVINGS PAYING THE DOCTOR STOP

RETURN IMMEDIATELY TO MONTREAL STOP

VICTORIA END STOP

 **To this day, there exists confusion as to why George Joestar II never returned to Montreal. There is belief that he had assured her to remain with friends as he continued to look after his mother, intent on returning. Some say the draft forced George to join the forces in Great Britain. Still others believe his surroundings and family members forced him to stay. Others believe there was a dark side to George, having already abandoned Victoria and taken affection to his eventual second wife Elizabeth Joestar, the mother of Joseph Joestar. Whatever the case, the Joestar family never came to know the existence of Victoria Benson.**

 **After his death in WWI, his Last Will and Testament was privately adjourned and proclaimed as such:**

To Victoria Benson, lost but never forgotten. You were there to tend my wounds and be my muse in trial and success. For to have never seen your face again is far more painful than the death I have befallen. Take care of Francine. I leave to you £10,000 and the name of Joestar.

 **Victoria received the settlement but refused to inherit the name Joestar, and instructed to her daughter Francine to never let the name Benson cease, as a testament to the family's will to hold together what was left. Since then, the name Benson is believed to continue to this day.**

 **The journal of George Joestar II was eventually discovered by his mother Erina Joestar. She never opened it in respect for her late son, nor told anyone of its existence. She only carried it with her when she immigrated to America with her grandson, and hid it in her New York apartment building.**


	5. American Star Bar Part 1

**CHAPTER 1 - AMERICAN STAR BAR PART 1**

April 2, 2007

Cadiz, California

For all the pomp surrounding the discovery of the False Joestar, it would take another month and a half to discover the actual location of their whereabouts.

In 2006, the New York home of the late Erina Joestar was opened as a History of Real Estate museum to the public. This was performed as an action of the Last Will and Testament of Joseph Joestar, who departed from this world at the age of 87 after a sudden case of pneumonia. Untouched by half a century of time, it was not fully known what would happen in the unveiling of the residence. The decor of the house was now antique and telling of Erina's British heritage. Also found in the house were a series of false floorboards in the master bedroom. Within the boards was the journal of George Joestar II and his secret past. Erina Joestar would take this secret location to the grave, and no one else knew until a fated date in 2006.

The discovery of George Joestar II's journal was monumental as the Joestar lineage was already a convoluted series of strongmen and bastards. To now know there could be a second line was unbridled chaos. For the next three years, the Speedwagon Foundation set up a hotline to determine how many descendants of Francine Benson remained. The Bensons, however, were difficult to pinpoint. Francine gave birth to triplets in 1931 with her husband, Dr. Winslow Burkes. All three were reported to bear a star on the left shoulder of their bodies like their mother, a phenomenon Winslow could not understand. Despite the insistence of the husband, all three children took the surname Benson has per the instruction of Francine's mother. These three children went in different directions in life, making the search much more difficult. The Speedwagon Foundation was not taking any chances, and was determined to guarantee the location of every Benson family member throughout history. With the help of Montreal authorities, they tracked down the locations of Harriet's children.

The three children were named Tobias, Cynthia, and Harriet. In their lives, they were happy and normal for the most part but all three suffered greatly in death. Tobias succumbed to an infection at the age of 18 after an untreated wound went unnoticed. Dr. Burkes would never forgive himself for this error, and took this sadness to an early grave dug from alcoholism. Cynthia fared better, living well into her twenties, but was killed in an automobile accident after a move to New York City. Only Harriet lived on throughout World War II and the Post-War era into the 1960s.

By her own way, Harriet became an intellect and graduated college with a Bachelor's in English at the age 20 from Cheyney University. She returned to Montreal and worked at a publisher for two years before she married quietly to a man named Lyle Vernon, a man she so loved, after it was discovered she was pregnant. Despite their quick wedding, they still loved each other to the very end. The child was born in the year 1960 and named Joachim Benson at Harriet and Francine's insistence. At his birth, doctors again noticed a star shape birthmark, only slightly more faded. However, he came into this world at the cost of Harriet's life after it was discovered she had a medical condition that went unnoticed throughout her life. Despite the magnitude of the family's grief, Lyle and Joachim were accepted into Francine's home and continued to live in relative peace.

Their world changed throughout the 1960s and 1970s into the 1980s. The civil rights movement, the changing political spectrum, the evolution of music, the rapidly expanding culture of North America. It was all so wondrous and jarring for anyone to take in. As such, Joachim left high school in a calculated risk and became a stock broker on the Montreal Curb Market. His streets smarts and calculative skills, passed on from Harriet's college texts, amassed a following of patrons after his near sage-like predictions led to untold wealth. This on top of the Benson fortune, generated by the seeds of inheritance, led to Joachim's early marriage in 1980 to a woman named Summer Niels, a runway model turned soap actress from New York City's Harlem district. Like Joachim, she too rose prominently through the economic classes and burst through several ceilings on her way. Together, they bought a house in the highborn district of Westmount, marking the first time anyone from the Benson family even stepped foot in its boundaries. They lived the dream life, and for a while, so did their daughter.

It is here our story begins truly with the birth of Josephine Benson on January 9, 1980. She was born into a cutthroat world of tenacity and high stakes. Early on, she seemed determined to live as free a life as her parents. She didn't know it at the time, but the stock market was to have a monumental date with destiny in the coming years.

On October 19, 1987, when Josephine was only six years old, the date known as Black Monday took 22.6% of all stocks off the table on The Dow Jones. The Curb Market responded in turn with plummeting stocks. Joachim was not prepared to handle the ensuing panic from those who proclaimed Gospel at his every word. The aftershock of October 27 and the Thai baht crisis only continued to hurt Canadian trust in the American dollar, and most of the Benson fortune invested into stocks was nowhere to be found. It was a classic riches to rags story of the 80s, and in true fashion of the time, Joachim Benson was found dead at poolside from a suicide, having owed his investors $40,000,000 and just lost his grandmother Francine to a case of tuberculosis the previous month.

Summer and Josephine Benson were alone in this world. Lyle Vernon wish he could help but the loss of his stocks, the ones his son guaranteed, forced him to take odd jobs well into his sixties. In a last ditch effort, Summer closed her accounts in Montreal, sold much of her belongings, paid what was owed by her husband, took Josephine out of school one day, and left.

She had dropped off the face of the Earth somewhere past the U.S./Canada border, and was never again in contact with anyone from Montreal.

This was the story sold to Rico Mambo as he trekked into the heart of the Badlands, where the only points of reference for miles were the mountains and the road. In February, Speedwagon Foundation employees tracked down a meager bank account in the hovel of Cadiz, CA. The name was Rosalyn Vernon, which was eventually determined to be a usage of Summer's middle name and Lyle's last name. To this, they further isolated accounts associated with her and determined she had a husband and a daughter. However, Rosalyn hadn't been seen or heard from since 1999, and her husband even before that. This left the daughter, Josephine Benson, who worked at a small bar just outside the city limits.

Now, having been briefed on the matter time and again, Rico stood outside the doors of the establishment known as American Star Bar, trembling like a child does when revealed to have lied about a minor incident. He checked his hair (full yet hopelessly thin), his clothing (a hybridization of Los Angeles fashion and Seattle sensibility) and his wallet (enough for one or two drinks... a second glance at the establishment told him the answer was three cheap drinks).

The American Star Bar was a wooden antique from a bygone era. It was sandwiched in a three mile stretch of road between Cadiz, a town that couldn't crack a population of 500, and Chambless, an actual ghost town with a population of 6 at last count. What could be a replica for a roadside attraction of the Old West was now a biker bar, advertised only by the sun and a wooden sign by day and small neon lights in the windows advertising brands of cheap beer by night. A row of motorcycles littered the right of parking lot. In fact, the clientele was so specific that the parking lot failed to cater to any four-wheeled vehicles. Rico had to parked his car in what could only be described as a generous void of asphalt.

With heart in throat and money in hand, Rico entered the bar, gated by two classic saloon doors. The first thing he noticed was an outdated jukebox dishing out The Beach Boys classic "God Only Knows". The second thing he noticed was the setup of the bar. Seven thick round tables made of what seemed solid oak with matching stools dotted the floor. The wooden floor made some ghost towns look downright chic. The basic setup that you would expect of a bar faced him, as a long L split the patrons from the bartender. That wasn't even to mention the patrons, who numbered ten. Some were bikers from the open road, some were vagabonds looking for respite. One man in the corner seemed pleasantly satisfied with no communication, as he seemed to constitute as a stranger in a strange land. _Most likely a tourist from the coast_ , thought Rico.

From behind an open doorframe, someone caught his eye. Coming from the back with a case of beer was a black woman dressed in a casual bartender outfit. She was roughly 6'1" foot in estimate, seeming tall to a 5'5'' Rico.

It soon became clear that every eye in the bar had fixated onto this newcomer. Even the bartender had noticed him. Were he to notice the little details, Rico might have noted the structure of her face was telling a story. _He's new, not a regular. He came here with purpose, but why? What does this bar mean for him?_

The last notes of "God Only Knows" faded out as Rico took his first real step into the bar.


	6. American Star Bar Part 2

**CHAPTER 2 - AMERICAN STAR BAR PART 2**

As Rico crossed the wooden floor, the patrons receeded back into their conversation. His trusty Converse low tops seemed to fade in and out of sound, as one second they tapped like a gentle shove and the next woke a banshee on one of the squeaky boards. He sat at the bar proper, the only man to do so in the establishment, and the bartender approached him. Upon closer inspection, she was simple yet clearly well put together. Her classic look of white button-up shirt with black tie and suspenders denoted a classic attention to detail, yet the rolled up sleeves focused more on a gritty notion of work. Her hair was shoulder length and layered, but cut with an fine hand so as to minimize fraying from the climate. She didn't seem to be a fan of jewelry, but she did wear a subtle layer of makeup. The minute attention to detail was impeccable, given her current situation of working in a bar like this.

"Hello, and welcome to American Star. Before I serve you, I need to see ID please."

It should be emphasized here that despite being forty-five years old Rico appeared to be as fresh-faced as a college graduate whose most recent portrait was a commission from an artist named Basil Hallward. It was both a blessing and a curse as the evidence clearly showed when he handed over his New York driver's license. The bartender scanned the card, looked back at Rico, back to the license, and pursed her lips. "I don't know what you take me for, but there's no way on God's green earth that you're forty-five."  
"I was afraid you'd say that," Rico mentioned, pulling out both his passport and a literal pocket copy of his birth certificate from his pocket. Handing both articles to the bartender, he waited for the pin to drop in her mind. She performed several double takes, and handed everything back to him in awe.

"Shit, you got good genes. Either, that, or there's an East Coast diet that actually works. So, what's your poison?"  
Rico scanned the backboard for the classic drinks and considered the atmosphere of the killing sun, captured in the April sky above California. "Moscow Mule, to start."  
The bartender started to mix the drink as the jukebox without warning changed eras and began to play Abe Lyman's "March Winds And April Showers". A quick scan around the bar told a simple story of people taking a break from the oppressive heat outside, which was presently shown through the thermometer on the wall reading 102°F. The gentleman from earlier who seemed like a tourist got up from his chair and went to the opposite end of the bar to pay his tab. The bartender served Rico his mule and took the tab at a register. Following the movement of the tourist walking outside, Rico listened to the banter of the local motorcycle club. They were plotting a bike tour North into Nevada, then East towards Colorado, for a charity designed to fund the medical expenses of a mutual friend. As he turned back to his drink, Rico was met with the bartender. "So what brings you to the very ends of the Earth? Surely New York's got to have _a_ bar."

"Well, that's the interesting part I suppose. I had business in Los Angeles and had time to myself before heading home."  
"Nice. Well, I can tell you the desert's good for that, just time for yourself. Give it two months and the Great Seattle Migration may come through again. Just college kids looking to find themselves after reading too much Hemingway. Not complaining. Pays well."  
"That so?" Rico took a sip of his drink, the ginger beer cutting through the haze of the afternoon. "Then, I do have a few more questions before I take a spirit quest. First, I have to ask the main question. Pardon me asking, but what led you to working at a bar at the corner of Nowhere and Middle of Nowhere?"

"I'm honestly not sure myself, tell the truth." She turned away to grab a beer bottle from the back shelf and handed it to one of the motorcycle club members, who had come up for another round. "Graduated community college, and thought it's going to be odd jobs for the rest of my life. Just like my grandad used to do until he couldn't work. One day, I'm searching the classifieds when I see this job. I'm thinking four, five months just to get my feet wet, make some scratch, see where it goes. Turns out the owner was getting on in years and wanted to find a suitable successor. Within six months, he sold the place to me. I asked him why me, and do you know what he said? He said as much as he wanted to trust one of his regulars, there wasn't getting around the fact that they're all wanderers. Souls in the desert, longing for an eternal freedom they could never achieve. This place fell into my lap for pennies like Manna and how could I say no? I was twenty-four at the time. How many twenty-four year-olds do you know who would kill a man if it meant working a bar like this."  
"Hell, I'd do it, and I'm forty-five. Gotta say, that's a pretty good story. Have to tell to the boys back home." With an outstretched right palm and a left hand pinching a business card, he offered mutual respect. "Name's Rico."  
The bartender took his hand and then business card. "Bernadette."

Rico was confused, but not visibly. _Wait, so_ _Josephine isn't in today, or she's somewhere else in the building. Why would a business this small need two employees? Surely, if she's in, she'd be at the bar. Instead, here's the owner. I need a bit more time._

Adjusting his glasses, he sipped gingerly on his drink as Bernadette went to ask the motorcycle club how they getting along. Meanwhile, the sun continued to beat on the establishment harder and harder. The jukebox shuffled again and "We Built This City" began playing. One of the bikers suddenly rose out of his seat and took to the jukebox in a rush of pure adrenaline, quarter in hand. The song stopped and, after seconds of consideration, the song turned to "Buddy Holly" by Weezer.

The biker turned to the bar, all eyes on him. "What? I hate Starship." With a confident stride he returned to the table.

Rico held his hand for attention and Bernadette returned to him promptly. "And what's the order of the hour?"  
"I just have a quick question. My business in Los Angeles also had me looking for a certain person of interest. Perhaps someone came this way."  
"Well, I try to keep my regulars on file, right here," and the bartender pointed to her head. "So, shoot."  
"Actually it's one of your employees. One Josephine Benson. "  
Bernadette was visibly shaken by the questioning. "I'm... sorry, sir. Josephine doesn't work here anymore. She, uh, recently moved to Oakland. It didn't end like we wanted, but couple days ago she wanted out. Said she wanted to move in with her boyfriend. I mean, you know college kids, right?"  
 _Here we go again. Someone has something to hide._ "Thanks for the information. I'll be sure to let my supervisors know of this developments. Can I get the phone number of Josephine while I'm here?"

With another word, Bernadette scratched a ten digit number on a scrap of receipt paper without even noticing it was well past chicken-scratch and verged towards abstract art. Stabbing the receipt on the counter, she rushed towards the back.

Just as she was leaving the room, the door to the bar opened and in walked a giant of a man wearing a four dollar shirt, ten dollars jeans, and a grin of bad intentions. The truest thing that stood out from his appearance was his hair, frazzled yet combed over all at the same time, grays intertwining with dirty blond. He reminded Rico of some sleaze-balls from West Manhattan who posed as loan sharks when they needed money. Nearly the height of the bartender, the man stepped into the bar, eyeing up the counter. His strides carried him in five steps, and he took a seat on a creaky barstool. In a singsong mocking tone, the newcomer cried "Oh, little Bernadeee~tte."

She stopped and about faced with all the fluidity of a brick. Through gritted teeth, she croaked a greeting. "Hey, Wallace. Haven't seen you in a dog's age. Why are you here, and what do I have to do to make it quick?"  
Willis sidled his elbow onto the table, arms folded. "I was in the neighborhood. Though I'd see my most favorite person in the whole entire world. Also, make a Red Eye. Just the way I like it."

Bernadette breathed inward and stepped back to prep the drink. Rico took careful notice of how she handled the drink. Red Eye was a known hangover cure despite its ingredient composition. It gained some fame after appearing in a Tom Cruise film that he remembers thinking was okay. It was also a messy bit of construction. While his Mule was designed to be an easier cocktail to make with three ingredients (generally a good choice for beginners), the Red Eye could be made in several different ways, all of which consisted of trying to balance several flavors that shouldn't go together. The beer, the tomato juice, the vodka, the raw egg. All muddled themselves into one concoction that somehow made its way into the lexicon of common mixed drinks.

Still, this twenty-four year old moved with the controlled finesse of an old hand, trained well by the man who had sold her the bar. The style reminded Rico of a piano player he knew in Denver, who could play "Chopsticks" all night and you wouldn't find a soul who objected because of his natural improvisation. The beer flowed upwards from a draining can to the top of the glass, and the tomato juice and vodka shortly followed. Bernadette halted quickly to glance at the bottle in her hand, a cheap Stolichnaya Blue Label, and quickly downed a swig of the vodka. Naturally, for courage. With a crack of the egg, she placed the yolk carefully into the drink and topped with Tobasco and Worcestershire. Spinning around with deft control, she setting the glass wet with beer foam on a coaster and pushed it forward. "Your Red Eye, sir."

It was at this moment that Rico noticed the motorcycle gang had placed their heads down, naturally afraid of Wallace's figure. This evidence, combined with the nature of how Bernadette made the cocktail (the Tobasco and Worcestershire were optional ingredients, and she knew how he liked it), told him Wallace was a regular and a tough customer. If not at this bar then another Cadiz haunt. Wallace took a glance at the Red Eye, back to the woman who had just served it, and grabbed at it. He sipped at the drink at first, and inspected for quality. Without warning, he downed the drink and slammed the glass on the counter.

"Not bad, not bad. Gettin' better. That old geezer went and taught you well." Bernadette composed her face to hide the slight against her mentor. The patron scanned the back wall of the bar, and having satisfactorily scanned all of his options, he returned down to Earth. He slapped down a ten-spot, and leered at Bernadette. "Keep the change. And one beer, whatever's on tap."

She turned to the taps to serve what could be generously described as a piss beer. Grabbing a Becher glass from the counter and operating the mechanism, the bronze fluid poured out much like the bottle from the Red Eye. Bernadette slid the glass back onto the coaster. In an instant, Wallace grabbed the glass with such ferocity and, with a sudden calm, poured the contents onto the floor.

Though the motorcycle club were shocked, no one dared step onto Wallace's spotlight. Rico scanned Bernadette's face, but there was no hesitation, no real sudden emotion. _However, looking in the corner of her eye, is that... humor? That man is a tank come to life and she isn't batting an eye! Forget Josephine, I may have found someone with a fighting spirit to match any Stand User!_

The man loomed overhead, dwarfing the still stoic bartender. "Oops, clumsy me. You gonna clean that up, miss?"  
Having just about enough, she still marched on. "Of course. No problem."

She went to the backroom to grab cleaning supplies, which gave Rico time to eye up Wallace, cupping his Mule with patience. _So this prick thinks he has enough to rumble. I mean, even if he were to trying something, there's always Jazz Funeral. The question is do I use it this crowded of a place? Wait, what am I saying. Cadiz is a nothing town, so I don't have to worry about making a scene. Yeah, I just shut this guy down. Noooo problem._ As Rico was surveying the invader, he glimpsed a tone of rage as Wallace swung himself towards him. "What're looking at, fresh meat?" Rico didn't necessarily retreat, but with a glare, he leaned back to continue recon.

Bernadette returned with a small mop and bucket to wipe up the beer, and when the deed was done, she turned her attention to Wallace. "And as for you..." She barely had time to mention anything else before the sound of glass shattering caught the bar in shock. The glass which had held the spilled beer now lay in pieces, having been pushed over in complete disregard. Bernadette's face dropped all emotion.

"Wallace, I was going to ignore the beer, but now you're going to pay for that and the glass. Plus extra."  
"Am I, Bernadette? Or am I going to show you what the fuck happens to people who mess with me?"

With that, he stood up and side-kicked the stool he had been sitting, shattering it into as many pieces as the glass. Rico was stunned. _I take back what I said about Jazz Funeral. This... thing isn't just strong. He's an unrepentant monster._

Wallace stared down Bernadette, who didn't seem to move in her sudden change of fortune. Whether by sheer confidence or blind determination, they were set to have words. Her mood suddenly clouded, as her voice transformed into a low growl.

"So, Wallace, what's making you act like a pissant this time?"  
"You know goddamn well what I'm here for. Two weeks ago, good friend of mine came in; was his day off and he wanted to stop in on your podunk rat's nest you call a bar. Name was Eli Carpenter."  
"Not ringing any bells. I get some shitstains walk in from time to time, but I haven't had one yet that matches you."  
"LIKE HELL I'M A SHITSTAIN! YOU PUT ELI IN THE HOSPITAL!"  
"Oh, that dude. See, it's funny, Wallace. Do you know why he's the hospital? It is because he didn't want to be a good boy and drink in an amicable silence like everyone else. He insulted my gin fizz, told off one of my regulars, spit his chew on the wall, and tried to grab my tit. I'm not a Vegas street tramp on spring break, and I think I made that quite clear when I broke his wrist and made his nose concave. So you can tell you and your friends that if you want another shot, be my guest."

Wallace squinted his eyes and lifted his left arm ever so slightly. "I'll take my shot here and now." he said, ripping his arm up and grabbing the shoulder of Bernadette, "I'll put you in the hospital and let Eli finish what he started. Little Jojo."

Rico near choked on his drink. _Did I hear that correctly? Did I actually hear that?_

Suddenly, one of the motorcycle club stood in protest. "That's enough!" He was an older gentleman with a well-decorated leather jacket and stahlhelm with multiple road scars. He stomped over and stared down Wallace. "You and I both know that Bernadette kept this place open out of the respect for Leo. I won't have another word in this establishment, you mongrel! If your drunkard of a father was here-" but the remainder of the sentence was cut short as the hand that was wrapped around Bernadette's shoulder now held the throat of the old man.

"Vic, you know damn well if my father was here, he'd skin you for that." and Wallace tossed the man across the bar. Vic's head hit the end of the rugged table, splitting it open instantly and painting his head with a crimson veil. His head was cocked at such an angle that you really couldn't tell if his neck was broken or not. His friends from the club were appalled, and two of them unsheathed their hunting knives. Wallace stared both of them down, a hawk scanning the ground for prey. They backed off immediately, and willingly sheathed their blades.  
Wallace laughed at the top of his lungs and in his throat. "You see, this is a good arrangement. I might have to bring the boys over, and have the night to ourselves." Turning his attention back to his prey, Wallace cracked his knuckles and gestured for a fight with his hands in a braggadocio manner.

The inner spirit of Bernadette immediately went into combat mode. "Gentlemen, the bar is closed for repairs temporarily. Please finish your drinks and exit the premises." The motorcycle club picked up Vic without a word and filed out of the bar, set on tending to their friend. She ripped her head towards Rico. "You too Ezra Koenig."

She turned her head back to Wallace, only to hear a loud bang behind her. Rico had slammed a ten dollar bill on the counter with the authority of a judge's gavel. He faced them both with equal determination. The last song of the jukebox had long since ended, and the machine wasn't playing any more. They were all alone in that quiet desert bar, and it had all the tension of a Mexican standoff without the pistols.

"Ten dollars to watch the fight, money goes to the victor," and he confidently finished his drink.  
Wallace grinned so his mouth took the form of a scythe. "Well, at least someone here knows how to get to brass tacks."  
"Uh uh, no, no way," Bernadette stated. "I'm not being held accountable for a casualty. Get the fuck out of my bar."  
He slammed another another ten on the counter. "I'll keep doing this until you both agree to let me sit in on the fight."  
"Literally no idea why you're doing this, but my answer is still no."  
SLAM. "He just called you Jojo. Why is that?"  
"It's a nickname I had when I was a kid and I hate it."  
SLAM. "I think there's more to this story."  
"And you're not finding out anything until you walk out of here and live, dammit."  
SLAM. "The fact is I know there's more to the story, and I can only confirm my suspicions with some risk involved."  
"Are you saying your life is worth fifty dollars?"  
SLAM. "I'm saying my curiosity is worth sixty."  
"How deep's your wallet?"  
SLAM. "New York resident deep."

Rico was about to increase the wager when Bernadette held up her hand. "Alright, fine. You want a funeral? I'm not sending flowers." She turned back towards Wallace. "So, as much I hate to say it, I'll agree to the seventy dollar bet. Now, about that ass beating."

She yanked her tie off like a ripcord in one motion and lost the suspenders, placing both behind the counter and adopting a fighting stance. Rico remained glued to his barstool the 102°F sun beating his back from the window. As Wallace stood in the middle of the bar, no doubt dollar signs in his mind, Rico thought about what about to take place. _There's not a doubt in my mind. That determination, that glare, that swagger. Truly, though the records may not show it, she is a member of the Joestar bloodline._


	7. American Star Bar Part 3

**CHAPTER 3 - AMERICAN STAR BAR PART 3**

In this world there are fighters and there are lovers. There are those who fight for love and there are those who love to fight. There are those who will love all from birth until death and there are those who are destined to be fighters their entire lives. If one was the chart the life of Josephine Benson, she would certainly fit the mold of a fighter whose life was devoted to the craft of conflict.

It didn't start this way. Josephine was born into a world of pomp and high class through the fortune and sweat of her parents. She grew up as a young girl with a nanny, a tutor, a chef, and a butler. She attended a nice school with big glass windows and a playground where everyone could run and play and enjoy the outdoors. Her teachers were attentive and saw great aptitude in Josephine. Every day her mother would come from a studio in her bold Buick Electra with the nice wine colored velvet seating to pick up her daughter. It was only fair given the nanny usually drove her to school. They went home and waited for Josephine's father to come home before sitting down to a wonderfully cooked meal. Every year for six years, the Bensons threw a birthday party for Josephine attended the whole neighborhood, and every year Josephine wore a beautiful white dress, fresh out of the packaging. The white picket fence, the green grass, the mansion. This was life for Josephine Benson.

One day, she might have come into her own and joined the ranks of her father in the cutthroat world of the stock exchange, competing against all to see who could make the most money in the shortest amount of time. She certainly had a knack for math at an early age. Perhaps her mother could have guided her through the obvious steps and pratfalls of the fashion industry to ascend to join ranks with the face of the known. This was not to be, for this world was the very reason that Josephine's life changed.

On a crisp October day, she was interrupted by her mother who came to her classroom. Though the memories are now twenty years old, she still remembers the look on her mother's face. To her, the mother she once knew was gone. The iconic fashion model Summer Neils-Benson who three weeks ago returned from a runway show in Chicago was now like everyone her mother told her to avoid while in Montreal. A cold and unfeeling husk whose mission in life was to survive.

Josephine didn't even know that when she left school that day, the body of her father Joachim was still at poolside as investigators arrived at their Westmount mansion.

They drove to her grandfather-in-law's house in Lachine, and while Josephine played in her father's old room, both her mother and grandfather had broken down in tears trying to console each other to no end. It was sometime around 7 in the evening when Josephine came out to see her mother. She was in the living room while Lyle made a meager dinner.

"Mommy, why can't we go home and have dinner with Daddy?"  
Her mother held herself. She hadn't told Josephine.  
"Mommy, I want to go home. Is that okay?"  
Again, no answer.  
"Mommy, I'm tired."  
"I'm tired too, sweetie."  
"Why are you tired, Mommy?"  
"Well, you see, baby girl. It's you Daddy. He's not coming home."  
This was a foreign concept to Josephine, who knew that in life you needed a father and mother to live. "What?"  
"And we're not going home for a while. We're staying with Grandpop."  
"Why?" Josephine started feeling terribly sad.  
"Because I want you and I to be safe. I just... don't know why."  
"Mommy, I want to see Daddy."  
"You can't sweetie."  
"Why not?"  
"Because..."  
"Why not?"  
"Because he's dead."

At that age, Josephine didn't really know how to understand what was just said. At times, the now-much older woman looks back and realizes the talk she and her mother had was the one event that made her who she is today.

"Josie, remember when your grandma went to Heaven? Your daddy went too. H-he loved you... very much." There were tears in her eyes like the soft drip of the last raindrop in a storm. "He was a good man, and I wish he was here with us today. But I need you to brave, okay? I need you to be brave."

Brave she was, as the following days were filled with questioning from investigators, insurance attorneys asking for papers to be signed, mourners and grievers in and out giving of their time. All directed at Summer, with only hugs and kisses and warm words for Josephine to shield her from the adult world of post-mortem paperwork. The November funeral was attended by a select group of fifteen people. All day long, a six-year old Josephine didn't know how to react. She knew she was sad, but her confusion came from her father's death. _Why did he leave me? I want to see him. He'll miss Thanksgiving. And Christmas._ This continued on, as she continued at her preschool with the nice teachers and the big playground. Suddenly, the warm and happy feelings were so dulled and faded. Her classmates tried to give her encouragement when they found out, but it rang hollow. Through Thanksgiving and into Christmas, the family held strong. All the while, Josephine didn't know how to feel.

One day in January, Summer picked up a now seven year-old Josephine and took her home. She mentioned they were going on a trip to The United States. In the months following her husband's death, she was hounded by people who wanted compensation from the stock market crash. In a desperate act, she had gone to the bank and made arrangements to sell her husband's properties. When all was said and done, she realized she needed an out to get away from everything. This grew to an extended vacation which morphed into a change of address.

On that cold winter day, as the Montreal sky shriveled, as grey and as cold as the water of Sainte-Anne-de-Bellevue Canal, they packed up their 1981 Chevrolet Camaro with all the essentials (the Electra with the wine colored velvet seating was being sold) and left. Summer stopped just outside of the Westmount limits and made a phone call to her father-in-law. When the call was finished, she returned to the car and turned her mind away from Montreal for good.

Summer kept driving and driving. She drove into and through the woods of Ontario and kept driving. She found herself at the U.S. border and kept driving. Through state after state, day and night, anything to get away from the city that took her husband. Summer had built her entire life up from the ground. She and her husband were _the_ power couple. And he was gone. It was now her and her daughter.

Only when they were well into the trip did Josephine know how to express her feelings toward her father's death. It was nighttime at a Colorado gas station. The only traffic on the road were the truck drivers whose souls were as alone as the highways they rode. Summer didn't have a lot to spend, so she bought a meager set of food (sandwiches, soda, and ice cream).

They returned to the car, and sat eating their dinner. They finished their meal, but Josephine felt hungry again. She shook the shoulder of her mother, and asked for more of the sandwiches. "Josephine, I love you, baby girl, but I need to save this bit of money for a room tonight. We'll eat in the morning."

Instead of being brave, Josephine felt the weight of the words, and began to sob quietly at first. For the first time in her life, there was a true hunger that no amount of food could cure. When she saw her mother cry as well, the two embraced and let every emotion that had chased them from Montreal explode. They did not know where they were going. It was an odd new world, and the nighttime Colorado sky swallowed their sorrow.

* * *

The next twenty years were a consistent barrage of reminders of what Bernadette's life once was and what it had become. As she faced every challenge head on, the heart that once was destined for greatness in the eyes of the world was trained for a new calling in life. One that would change her from a shy and reserved child into a formidable fighter. It was in this fight with Wallace that she began to feel a great upheaval in her soul, and she called forth the spirit that had haunted and shielded her for eighteen years. This was her ghost, her defense.

She always knew about superheroes, growing up in the California desert. Though the world had sped ahead in a rush towards hypermodernity, there would always be superheroes everywhere. To any outsider, the fights she got into were the results of pure strength and good luck. She knew the truth. She had a superpower, and she knew when to really use it.

Her ghost was a steel hexagon that attached to her like a backpack. Printed on the back were the red carapace and black spots of a ladybug. The source of her superpower, it only had one ability: protect her at all costs. This is how she became a fighter.

Wallace charged into Bernadette like a bison with a raised fist. She deftly shifted her weight to the left and blocked his fist with a shield generated from her backpack. It appeared as a green light forming from her hand (which, when she first found out about her superpower, freaked her out, but it guaranteed she was safe). Wallace, like many others, did not notice it. His forward momentum nearly carried his body into a barstool, but he whipped back his right arm into an unsteady Bernadette. His elbow connected with her shoulder, but she held on, feet pivoted to the side. Bernadette dove back out of harm's way and snapped with a recoil of forward momentum into Wallace's sternum. He held himself in turn and grabbed her arm, squeezing down so as to bruise and injure. Bernadette winced with anger, feeding into Wallace's violent rampage. Without warning, he ripped her off the ground and threw her into the center of the bar.

Rico stood up to intervene, but Wallace held up his palm. "You get anywhere near us, city boy, and I _will_ end her." With the confidence of a military general, he strode over to end the fight. He glanced down at Bernadette, bleeding from the corner of her lip, appearance in total disarray. With any luck, her last injury broke a facial bone and bruised a majority of her shoulder region. He tut-tutted the sight like an autocratic parent, and knelt down beside his fallen adversary. Giving one glance back to thier spectator, Wallace brought the full force of his fist onto Bernadette's head.

Only to be met with a quick shield and single defiant punch that knocked him back into the right-side wall, knocking several pictures off their hinges. Rico gingerly turned his head right, and saw Bernadette slowly rising to her feet. Her Stand had protected her, and was now in a completely new form. Gone was the ladybug pattern backpack; in its place were a pair of red metal boxing gloves, designed for heavy hand-to-hand combat.

Her impenetrable defense had now become her undeniable offense.

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	8. American Star Bar Part 4

**CHAPTER 4 - AMERICAN STAR BAR PART 4**

"Wuh duh fug."  
Wallace rose to his feet, three teeth rattling out of his busted mouth and falling to the floor. His head had not only knocked the pictures off the wall; it had also rammed through the wall, hitting a pipe in the process. The damage was visible, but he soldiered on. _He may be a prick, but he's a stubborn prick. Heh._

Rico shifted in his seat, Mule now finished. The sun continued its assault on his back, and he now wished for another drink. They had both done enough damage to take a normal human out of commission. Bernadette's nose was now bleeding steadily and her arm was turning a violent blue. It seemed none of them were giving any sense of stopping. They stopped to catch their breath, knowing the next move could finish the fight. Rico began to see them not as brawlers but as fighters of equal turf, despite their unassuming ways. _They're both veterans of conflict who found themselves on the opposite sides of a coin. Something tells me they've been wanting to go at it for a while now. That's what the desert will do to you._

It was Wallace who broke the silence of the moment. "Hot damn, little Jojo. You aren't the little girl I remember." Apparently his missing teeth didn't affect his speech. "Quickly becoming the best challenge I've had in years. Too bad, 'cause once I run you down, no one'll ever say your name again. I'll wipe you off the face of the earth. Right after I wipe you from my boot."  
Bernadette stared him down and raised her arms in resignation. "I have to admit Wallace. This has been fun, but I'm set on serving the evening crowd tonight. Say hi to Eli for me, and maybe rearrange his face to match yours. It's his fault you look like lost a fight with a bowling ball."  
"Look at you. You ain't shit, Jojo. You're just like me. Eyes of a killer."

With the quick respite finished, Wallace charged at Bernadette who now began to dodge with purpose. Every fist Wallace threw was carefully sidestepped, and they began to rotate in a circle. With her back to the bar, Bernadette grabbed a still intact barstool with her Stand and ripped it around. Instead of offense, however, she guarded against an incoming elbow, which got entangled in the stool's legs. She dove to the right, close to the jukebox, and turned back into the center of the bar. Wallace got himself loose of the barstool and stared her down. The two had reset and now squared off again.

 _I see. Now that she willingly downed her shields, she has to dodge more and find a sweet-spot. She might only get one shot at this. Although..._

With a sly grin, Rico eyed up the back of the giant's head. He shot a quick glance to Bernadette, who seemed intent on the next exchange. In a soft and slow motion, he folded his arms and summoned his Stand from behind his back. Unlike most Stands, but like Bernadette's, Rico's Stand was an inanimate object, appearing as a single blank strand of grand staff sheet music. The notation read 4/4 and featured six symbols representing flat notes. It was roughly three meters long, and in all his time with the Speedwagon Foundation, Rico never saw a Stand quite as fragile or as delicate as his. It was his spirit personified. Quiet and difficult to predict, yet infinitely open to potential.

With a slight adjustment to his right index finger, a quick dart of light shot out and nailed the back of Wallace's head. He didn't double over in pain, but certainly took notice. He wheeled around to face Rico. "The FUCK was that for? I felt that, funny man, and I think it's time you left."

THUD

Distraction applied, Bernadette landed a solid hit on her opponent's jaw from behind. The previous attack, having done damage to the right side of the face, was exacerbated from this hook to the left jaw. A bone cracked and Wallace doubled over in agony. Bernadette used this momentum to grab him by his filthy shirt and, in a feat that even impressed Rico, lifted him up and off his feet. She held Wallace high and tossed him down onto the floor without warning. A gust of air escaped his mouth, and his eyes lit up with terror.  
In a final crescendo, Bernadette lifted the man up on his feet and wound up her fist. Suddenly, a series of steadily increasing concussive blows were unleashed on the clearly dazed Wallace. It started slow but began to speed as the man turned punching bag staggered back towards the door. Rico, who at this point was on his feet, heard every punch coupled with a war cry from deep within her lungs.

BERA...BERA...BERA...BERA BERA BERA BERA BERA BERA BERA BERA BERA BERA BERA BERA BERA BERA BERA BERA BERA BERA BERA BERA BERA BERA!

Wallace, now sufficiently concussed, stood on shaky legs by the door. One more wind-up.

 **BERA!**

The motorcycle club, having tended to Vic and notified authorities from the next town, saw a body fly out of the establishment and hit the parking lot. They looked at the double doors, and saw Bernadette walk out with ragged pride, blood still running from her nostril.

"Anyone call the police yet?" One of the younger bikers mentioned he used his cell phone.  
"Huh. They should be here by now." Gesturing to her fallen adversary, she mentioned, "Our guest over there should be good lounging on the pavement. If he wakes up, give him this." She tossed a water bottle in their general direction. "Nothing else."  
She turned back to the bar. "And as for you," she muttered, pointing an accusatory finger at Rico. "We need to talk." She didn't say anything further that would describe this eventual conversation as she trudged over and grabbed her seventy dollars.

* * *

 **BETWEEN 2:00PM AND 12:00AM**

As the police questioned Bernadette and the motorcycle club regarding the incident and Wallace was carted off, Rico was off to the side for much of the proceedings. The police only asked him about his purpose in Cadiz and what he could recall about the fight. Still, he awaited time enough to talk with Bernadette. _What_ _have roped myself into?_

Bernadette for her part asked that charges were not brought against Wallace. All she asked was that he paid restitution for the damages. Rico stayed, nursing three more drinks as the afternoon turned to evening. There was a hush over the American Star Bar as they remained the two occupants. They chose an amicable silence in place of small talk. Bernadette's arm was starting to look better by five, and her bloody nose had long since subsided. Compared to the near critical state of Wallace, she was the clear victor, but perhaps only because Rico intervened. For his part, he would often get up from his barstool and scan the jukebox, every so often finding a song he enjoyed and popping in the customary two quarters. Yet, every time he returned, he had a grimace on his face. As the sun set and dropped the temperature the desert was no longer a hostile trap of brewing conflict, but a mantra, a meditation of peace.

As six o'clock rolled around, they came. Regulars from beyond the open road. Bikers and tourists from beyond. Californian communities like Danby and Chubbuck, Siberia and Saltus, even Sunfair and Twentynine Palms from a distance out were represented. Some of the parties, having visited the bar prior, brought tables and chairs to serve their time. It was so crowded, a traveling mobile home that parked outside broke out the lawn chairs and more room was made under the twilight stars. Rounds were passed from table to table. Stories were swapped over cold ones.

People got a good look at Bernadette's arm and damage incurred to the wall and tables. Instead of offering condolences, they celebrated her conquering ways. Wallace had been halted and his gang would be soon to follow. One man even bought her a shot of her best sake, which was the Nihon no Tsubasa, a Japanese import which she bought on a trip to Costa Mesa on the LA coast. People knew her story and her favorite topics, so it was natural they knew her favorite spirits. Rico even got in on the action by playing his favorite bar game, Guess My Age. Not a soul could believe this fresh faced hipster was a 45 year-old barfly, and he made a solid profit, enough to buy a fifth drink.

For a location like this, Bernadette turn profits like an established joint in the heart of San Fran. Rico could tell the place had history and character from the previous owner. He entrusted a caring heart to hold the keys. As the last of the bar tourists faded out, and the clock struck eleven, it started to die down a bit as older couples out for the night and bar crawlers looking for other haunts exited out steadily. It was down to the last couple of businessmen from Barstow and bikers who were calling hotels and checking rates.

Bernadette was wiping down glasses when Rico decided to take a risk. "So, I was wondering what you wanted to discuss."  
"I was wondering why you decide to get involved in the fight earlier."  
"What? Naw. Me?" ... "Okay, so I did something."  
She set her glass down, and placed her palms on the bar, clearly unsure how to feel. "Look... I don't know what you did to distract Wallace, but I had that won. I'm not angry or anything. I just wanna know why. And just so you know," positioning her pointer finger to the bar, "I don't like liars."  
"Because I cared enough."  
"Sentimental. Cute."  
"Okay, so - to truly understand why I needed you to win that fight, I should let you know about my business in Los Angeles. And I'd appreciate it if you keep an open mind."  
"I'm listening."

Rico took a deep breath. "My name is Rico Mambo. I've worked for a group called the Speedwagon Foundation for fifteen years now. In my line of work, we study phenomena that cannot not be explained by traditional science. The case of mine was a teenager who got into a scuffle with some gang members and put all three in the hospital. While I was on the case, I received word that my contact in New York located a hit on a separate case, which brings me to you."

Bernadette let out a slow and planned whistle. "Wow. Crackpot theorist organization wants to study little old me? Call me blessed, call me cursed. You're not the first gentleman to come in here and start spouting. Finish your drink and get out, man. Don't know why you stayed here so long." Bernadette picked up her glass and placed it on the bar's backboard.

Rico stuttered a reply. "Look, I know it sounds crazy, but I'm here because the Foundation located documents linking you to Summer Niels-Benson."

She stopped. Turning around like a ballerina in a broken music box. Fury in her eyes. "Get out. Now."  
"I KNOW ABOUT THE GHOST!"

There was a weird silence. Rico spun around in confusion. All eyes were on him, and going over what he had just shouted in his head, no wonder this happened. The general mood returned slowly as everyone resumed their conversation while making weird gestures at him.  
"Rico, was it?"  
He looked at her concerned face. The simmering rage had dropped to a concern and near fright like the platform of the gallows. _I think I should have been a tad more tactful.  
_ "You and I are going to have a talk in my office." Bernadette reached underneath the bar and withdrew a placard that read CLOSED TEMPORARILY. Placing it in front, she walked to a door to the right of the bar and gestured Rico to follow.

Rico stood from his barstool, looking tentatively at his glass, and walked in her direction. "Watch your head," she said, though Rico seemed fine through the doorway. _Oh, right. I'm 5'5"_. The door led to a small hallway with three more shut doors. She withdrew a keyring and opened the second door, revealing a cramped study with a simple metal desk and files upon files of paperwork that reached high in columns like city towers made from manila. A window showed a view into the lone expanse of the nighttime California desert. The room was clearly designed for the business of the bar, and given the extent of documents, it seemed the bar had been here for quite some time.

Bernadette took her seat and clasped her hands in resignation, elbows on table. With no flourish or action, she summoned her Stand into existence. Her knuckles cracked as she manipulated her metallic gloves back into a comfortable position. "My real name, as you may know by now, is Josephine Benson. That's all you'll get. You can start talking. I'd like to hear your side."

* * *

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	9. American Star Bar Part 5

**CHAPTER 5 - AMERICAN STAR BAR PART 5**

April 3, 2007

Cadiz, California

In her eyes, the man sitting across the desk looked like the punks she knew at San Bernardino Valley Community. Trying to posture about how they had superior minds, superior skills, superior tastes. Day in and out they stood to the class and parroted factoids and anecdotes, like that was going to get you ahead in life. While she held back and studied like a madwoman at home, they did all their work in public. And yet, where were they when it came to group projects? On big papers? On finals?

This is what quiet practice got her. A Bachelor's in Hospitality, Manga Cum Laude, and a bar to call her own. They dropped out, they took it easy, and they grabbed some cushy job in LA and another decade of pill popping and late nights living barely legal lives. They would live like scofflaws, like gnats tempted by the light trying to dodge the zapper.

Now, Bernadette was face to face with the life she left. The dude went on and on about how was tasked to find her after some other dude in New York kicked the bucket and left behind a journal of secrets. A family of warriors passed down over a century, the might of power inherited by this bloodline, fate, spirits, war. It was a modern age mythos, and honestly all too much to take in.

"So, let me get this straight. I'm the great-great-great granddaughter of a woman who fell in love with a dude from England on vacation. They get married, have a kid, and he went on to have another wife and kid? And no one knew about any of this until just this year?"  
"Precisely. That's why I'm here. To let you know you could be targeted because you have the blood of the Joestars in your veins. Right now, as we speak, there are people across the globe who want nothing more than to become immortal and the Joestars stand in their way. It sounds farfetched, but the one known as DIO left a scar across time that won't be healed anytime soon."

Bernadette took a second to clear her thoughts. Rico was staring her down with such an intensity that his eyes cut through the teashade glasses on his nose. She could feel his presence, one of focus, and realized this was a rare instance. Out in the deserts of Cadiz, the men and women were often delirious travelers, minds cooked by the Sun and the road. Those around her made her comfortable because she was in control. This man was puny compared to her own stature, yet held like a precipice against the waves of an ocean.

"Well, how can I help?"  
"Funny you ask that. I'm only here to report back to my supervisors. So, you have two options. One, you come with me to New York-"  
"Nope."  
"- or two, host me for a week. I can see what kind of power you possess, how well equipped you are to defend yourself in the event of an incident, and if we, The Speedwagon Foundation, should step in."

Bernadette softly blew wind out her nostrils at this thought. It was a distinct possibility that all of this was fake, and she had wasted a good night listening to this man spout off. On the other hand, he had known about the ghost she possessed...

"One last question. How do you know about my... powers?"  
Rico sat up in his chair, the back creaking as he shuffled for comfort. "Because, like you, I too possess a Stand."

Holding his arms out like he was defending against an assailant, he commanded his Stand to materialize.

"JAZZ FUNERAL."

A length of paper shot out from the ether and coiled around his right arm. Bernadette jumped back in fear but when the paper halted at the fingertips, she halted frozen. This single strand of paper was much like her backpack and gloves, a non-living object that exuded great power and made Rico more commanding than before, chest tensed, arms rigid. Despite his pose, the paper moved and dance like an eel around his arm, curling and waving.

"This is what I used in that fight you had with Wallace. It is named Jazz Funeral, and it holds the ability to convert all I hear into weaponized energy. I manifested my Stand many years ago in a fit of realization and awakening. Because of this Stand, I have won many fights. Yet, I have become a target because of this power. Do you wish to see its true potential?"

* * *

Bernadette closed shop and exited her bar at 2:30 in the morning. Rico followed behind her, his Stand out of sight. She could feel the cold sweat that the California nights were infamous for, and she scanned the ground for the dangerous wildlife of the area. It was on this night she could feel her life suddenly losing focus, like the refracting glass of a old and weathered space telescope. She halted at a length away from the American Star, and about faced Rico.

Rico stood and gazed at the full moon, unpolluted by the light of a city. Breathing in and out purpose, he took a fighting stance and commanded, once again, his Stand to manifest. The paper shot out, now bathed in a iridescent glow of yellows and oranges that lit up Rico's face. He held out his arm and two fingers upwards into the night. Without warning, a bolt of lightning appeared from his fingertips and cracked out in an arc. The lightning ejected away the Stand User and danced away into the night. Bernadette was stunned by this impossible display of power and let out a quiet whistle.

"Well, you got me. That was something else."  
"Hold that thought."

As he said this, a sudden thunderclap ricocheted through the desert. Bernadette turned to see a mass of light the size of a basketball, hovering like a firework suspended in time. It began to grow smaller and smaller, fading away into the stars. Just as quickly as the light had appeared, it detonated in a flash, dispersed among the valley. Rico trudged over to the stunned Bernadette. She could notice his Stand was no longer glowing. The only light for miles was the neon of the bar.

"That is the power of my Stand. Now, I would never summon all of my accrued energy at once, but for this demonstration, it was necessary. Normally, I can control my energy into short bursts, like our fight against Wallace earlier. It may take some time for me to summon the energy again to fight, but I am confident that should the need rise, your Stand will protect those around you."  
"That's something I wanted to ask you. You said your... Stand had a name."  
"Correct. My Stand is called Jazz Funeral. A fitting name."  
"Just so you know, I never named mine."  
"Really? That's... different. Normally, the Stand Users I meet in my travels are than willing to provide a name."  
"Truth be told, I just thought they were superpowers. DC, Marvel, and all that."

Rico clasped his hands in thought. "This is a momentous occasion. I... I need to ask you something. May I be the one to name your Stand?"

Bernadette was perplexed by the idea. "Why would you name it? It's my power."  
"Yes, yes, yes, and you will technically be naming it, but I can help you draw out from your heart a name of great significance. You see, of the many people who have come into contact with the Joestar family, I took interest in a fortune teller named Muhammad Avdol. It was he who created the name Star Platinum, a mythic spirit belonging to Jotaro Kujo, one of the many Joestars. The Speedwagon Foundation took great care to chronicle his life following his tragic death at the hands of a foe. To follow in his footsteps would be an honor not often afforded."

Bernadette thought about this with a stern reluctance. There was a feeling in the beck of her mind that this was an opportunity, but she didn't know how to respond. This decision could affect how she saw her Stand. At some point, he bent down on his knees in the dirt and was near begging.

"Alright, alright. Don't kid yourself. I may be your pet project, but just know I'm no one special." She grabbed his arm and hoisted him with such force his glasses flew up his face. "So, what's the plan?"  
Rico rubbed his hands in anticipation. "Well, I have to do something to Jazz Funeral first."

Returning to a focused stance, Rico reach out his arm to Jazz Funeral.

"PUTTIN' ON THE HITS"

The piece of paper began to morph and twist into a new form. With a puff of smoke, Jazz Funeral tumbled to the ground. It had suddenly become a standard record player, with an intricate wood trim around the body of the device. A vinyl disc ejected from the front which Rico grabbed in a calm haste. He eyed the disc and then Bernadette. She was now as confused as the moment Rico began his spiel in her office.

"Jazz Funeral has a unique ability I named Puttin' on the Hits. This disc, this record, possesses the song that lies on your heart at this very moment. This is what will determine your Stand's name."

Rico cradled the disc gingerly on the turntable and lifted the needle. The record began to turn. In the three seconds she had before the song began, Bernadette felt the cold night creep into her.

A clicking and mechanical guitar emanated from the record. Suddenly, a chorus of haunting voices joined in the song. A piano struck a death toll in the background. A groaning and raspy voice welled from the pits of Gehenna itself to deliver a passionate cry. The lyrics stung Bernadette, her life unfolding, her exodus from violence laid out before her. Suddenly the song went quiet, and a single voice began to develop a cappella. It cried, it screamed, it tore through the night like a missile. She shook from fear.

And from the corner of her eye, Bernadette felt a single warm tear forced out. She could hear her mother crying. She could hear herself crying. All those years ago, racing to meet her, trampling her before turning away like an illusion, her past a filmstrip drowned in acid. A poison had left her that night, and from this roared calm.


	10. Stand Report 650: Gimme Shelter

**FROM THE FILES OF THE SPEEDWAGON FOUNDATION**

 **STAND REPORT #650: GIMME SHELTER**

Stand - Gimme Shelter  
User - Bernadette Benson

Appearance: A hexagonal metallic red backpack decorated with a ladybug pattern and non-functioning compound eyes. It can also take the form of a pair of red metal gauntlets.

Power: B  
Speed: B  
Range: E  
Durability: A  
Precision: C  
Developmental Potential: B

Ability: Attaches to the back of the user and generates a shield, which deflects all incoming physical damage. A sustained shield has a usage limit of one minute before it enters a cooldown period dependent on how much damage was incurred on the shields. Deactivating the shield before one minute cancels the cooldown period.

Secondary Ability - Street Fighting Man: Converts the backpack into metal gauntlets, which magnifies the physical strength of the user by a factor of five. While Street Fighting Man is active, no shields may be generated.


	11. The Light of the West

**CHAPTER 6 - THE LIGHT OF THE WEST**

Cadiz, CA

April 3, 2007

As the sun rose on the historic Route 66, there was a feeling of great promise that stretched as far as the horizon. The light crept into the dim bar, a fine dust hanging silently in the air. Bernadette awoke at her standard time of eight in the morning, in the scant apartment sized bedroom attached to the back of the bar. Her head was ringing from the events of yesterday. Rising to her feet, she went to her dresser mirror to survey the damage. The bleeding had since subsided from her nose, but it may well be weeks until her arm had fully heal-

The bruising from yesterday was gone.

Bernadette was shocked by this turn of events. She had learn over the years to be a quick healer, having taken hits in the past from rowdy patrons, but never to a point where she was a freak of nature. Realistically she should've sought medical attention yesterday for such an ugly injury. And yet, there was the proof. Her skin unblemished, its natural shade.

Bernadette shrugged it off and started to put together her customary bar uniform. She realized coffee was in order and stat. The bar wasn't normally open that late but business was business. She was surveying her clothes for the day when a shout came from outside. Still in sleepwear, she dashed out in the parking lot to see Rico, attached and clawed to the open door of his car like a taxidermy wall ornament. Shooting a quick glance to Bernadette, he nodded towards the center of the parking lot.

He had come face to face with one of the most dangerous residents of the California desert, _Crotalus scutulatus,_ the Mojave rattlesnake. Living in these conditions, you had to be used to this, but Rico was far away from New York. The most dangerous animals you could expect would be the cockroaches that hid within the cityscape or the carnivorous animals at the Bronx Zoo. This was a whole new experience, as the Mojave rattlesnake was one of the most venomous snakes on the face of the Earth. One bite would send a vicious neurotoxin through the bloodstream, causing hallucinations, stroke-like symptoms, and eventual respiratory failure. While the anti-venom could be produced readily, the sheer loneliness of Cadiz in reference to other cities could cause irreparable damage.

The snake weaved and glided around the parking lot, agitated by the unnatural asphalt. The day was not yet unbearably hot, but eventually it would seek shelter in a cooler climate. Rico's car was the only shadow in the line of sight, putting him in danger. Bernadette shot another glance at Rico. She mouthed _get in the car_ , and Rico jerked his head in agreement. Slowly inching his way into his compact, the door closed with relatively easiness.

Bernadette backed off slowly into the swinging bar doors and disappeared. Rico waited patiently, keeping a rearview on the snake in anticipation of possibly having to drive off at a moment's notice. He could hear from inside the bar a hard knocking noise, and then silence. Seconds later, the doors were gingerly pushed open. Out she stepped, two pound pistol gripped in her right hand. From the porch of the bar, she nodded to Rico and raised the pistol carefully in line with the rattlesnake. There was no sound, as the snake coiled at Bernadette some ten feet away. It flicked its tongue in aggression, looking for an opening. It wouldn't find that opportunity, as three shots rang across the parking lot. Her laser focus hit its mark, and the body jumped in a death spasm. She lowered the gun, arms like icebergs, and went around back to grab a shovel to finish the job.

* * *

"You know, this wouldn't have happened if I had just slept in the bar."  
"Sorry compadre. Them's the rules."  
"A whole week of avoiding murdersnakes. Terrific."

The bar was open for business and Rico took his place of honor from yesterday. There was one barstool less, thanks to Wallace, but the bar was no worse for wear. Bikers rolled around eleven for respite, and the club from yesterday returned to update that Vic was in good spirits considering everything that had taken place.

Bernadette was wiping down a glass when she thought of her wound. Removing any remaining moisture, she placed the glass under the bar and addressed Rico.

"So, interesting thing happened last night."  
He had been taking notes regarding his subject's Stand when she said this. Without moving his face to acknowledge , he shrugged. "I suppose my Stand's firework show is pretty good," and he returned to writing.  
She let her fist fall onto the bar counter with a thud, startling Rico. "My bruise, idiot. It's healed up and everything."  
"Well... would you look at that?"  
"Yeah, interesting. I was wondering if it had anything to do with you."  
"Yeah? That's an interesting theory."

Bernadette eyed up Rico. "You look like a man half your age. You show up yesterday, prove that I'm not the only one who has ghost - Stand - things, and put on a miniature Aurora Borealis. Talk."

Rico pursed his lips and kept his head down. "That obvious, huh? Alright, so this is a difficult concept, seeing how I just laid the groundwork for Stands last night, but I possess another power."  
"I've got time"

Rico cleared his throat and leaned in slightly to spin his tale.

* * *

"I was born in 1962, in a quiet suburb outside of New York. I didn't start truly living until 1980. That's when I joined the navy for a few tours of duty, and got enough time to finally see the world from outside of New York. Some look at it as the epitome of the East Coast, but when it's all you know your entire life, it starts to get stale.  
"I went through boot camp at 18 and popped out a member of the Third Fleet before transferring to the Second Fleet. Sure, I only fought in the Invasion of Grenada, and got out just before the Tanker War to go on tour as a musician, but there was time enough in '82 to see the sights. One day, we were docked in Los Angeles, and we found ourselves enough time to head onto land. I knew exactly where I wanted to go. Hollywood.  
"I had always wanted to see the plasticine glamor mixed with immortal cinema of the West Coast, and here it was before me. You might think I went on sightseeing tours, or caught a premiere, but no. I just wanted to walk around, take it easy. Always been a big walker.

"I wound through the streets taking in the massive houses of Beverly Hills. These beautiful houses stood empty throughout the days, tombs waiting for the king and queen to return one final time. It was here, at a bistro just off the block of mansions, that I ran into a woman who would change my life. She was walking to a matinee in the spring afternoon and had found herself being tailed by a stalker.  
"She told me years later that, at the time, she could have handled the wannabe attacker on her own. She chose not to due to it being daylight and the fact her late husband had gone through a scandal involving an affair, fraud, and an offshore bank account in Cuba during a time when Soviet fear was palpable. The scandal left her reputation out to dry. Having noticed my naval uniform, she approached me and sought protection from the stalker by pretending to be an acquaintance of mine. Rather than stand aside, I assured the woman I would handle the situation. I exited the shop and confronted the man about his actions. Turns out he had just been a lonesome paparazzo trying to get her picture. Confirming with him that she wished to be left alone with a mild threat of force, he received the message and left.  
"I returned to find she had already sat down and ordered lunch. We got to chatting, and she insisted I come to a garden party at her mansion. This was my first encounter with Elizabeth.

"I arrived fashionably late and my new acquaintance introduced me to her guests as a hero. While the garden party was nice, it was odd seeing how relatively normal everyone was acting. They were just like me, only with a few zeroes more at the end of a paycheck and eating fine grilled meats instead of hot dogs.  
"The garden party wound down into the night, and I caught up again with Elizabeth. She told me she could sense a great deal of potential within me, and instructed me to return after my service in the navy for a chance at employment. I'd been told by my parents to never turn down a job offer, so I happily agreed to returning.  
"It was 1985, and I was at this time on tour with my band as second chair sax. I returned to the Los Angeles area and tried to reconnect with her. At this time, she had retired and hadn't been heard from in months. Returning to where the garden party was held, I went to be buzzed in at the gate only to find her just inside, as if waiting for my arrival. We both went inside and she entrusted to me that she was not seeing any visitors due to her failing health. Yet, she was only in her sixties and, as she would show me, still full of vigor. She proceeded to discuss the matter of my employment, to be conducted after my band's tour ended. She was only of two living practitioners of an ancient martial art, and she required a pupil lest it be lost to the ages. As to why I was selected, she could sense all those years ago an inherent potential in me. She also entrusted to me that because of this martial, she could see the writing on the wall. How I was to live onward, how I would strengthen myself, how I would die. Despite all this, at the age of 23 when most people would begin to build their lives, I entrusted her. I did like the navy, but it had left me a harder man then before, and the touring didn't help much. I agreed to become her pupil. It was at this time she told me her preferred name. Lisa Lisa.

"We began work for my learning in a compound just outside the Santa Monica Mountains. For years, I trained with her. Every ounce of effort to prepare my body for the deep and ancient powers she was promising. Through this training, I became adept in Tae Kwon Do, Tai Chi, Judo. I was nimble and strong, two phrases I didn't know to be combined. The navy was about force; this was more like an art. Between sessions of training, she would recount her adventures throughout her life, what with all the celebrities she met and the many martial artists she instructed in her lifetime. To know this woman that I had only previously known for one day truly showed the matter in which people can change lives when they enter into your own life.

"One day in 1987, Lisa Lisa imparted upon the technique of Hamon, having trained my body to be as such to hold it's power. This ancient technique gave me power over the heat around me by utilizing breathing techniques to unleash the power of the Sun and perform miracles. It altered my physiology drastically, and as the weeks I began to notice my body becoming younger and younger until I appeared almost childlike. I was convinced she had cursed me with an unwanted immortality, but she assured me that practitioners of Sendo, the martial art of Hamon, experienced this regularly. As the years wore on, I reverted again to a normal appearance.  
"The years got on and eventually my master said there was nothing more to teach. She pointed me in the direction of the Speedwagon Foundation for employment as she was around for the founding. Before leaving, she showed me a single image of the future. The moon was out, and the sky was a fiendish red. She said this would be the last moments of my life. Disturbed as I was, I still thanked her for her tutelage and companionship, left with a confident stride and the sun in my face, and caught the first flight back to New York. It wasn't until later that I learned that Lisa Lisa, as youthful as she was, was born in 1888 and died at the age of 110."

* * *

"So yeah, I'm this way because of ancient wisdom mixed with breathing techniques."  
"You know, Rico - Maybe a few hours, you'll just fade away. And I'll be left with the memories of talking to a heat hallucination. On second thought," and she reached underneath the bar and proceeded to down an entire bottle of water stored in a mini-fridge. "Nope, you're still here."  
"Also, your arm? Hamon has restorative properties."  
"Yep... okay."

* * *

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	12. Little Drop of Poison Part 1

**CHAPTER 7 - LITTLE DROP OF POISON PART 1**

Cadiz, CA

April 5, 2007

Rico turned his journal back and forth, going over his notes on Bernadette. Her Stand, Gimme Shelter, was a tricky little power. It depended not on its own strength but of the power of its User. Having seen her prowess in the fight against Wallace, he was well convinced that the gloves were designed to be a multiplicative strength enhancer.  
The shield was a bit harder to figure out, but he considered it to be alike to the way Jazz Funeral expelled energy. It would craft shields dependent on what the User required, but had limitations regarding size and duration.  
Unfortunately, Bernadette was tied up with work, so the time needed to further examine the full extent of her powers was dwindling. She was dead set on staying in Cadiz and keeping to herself. Any attempt to breach this discussion was promptly shot down. So Rico spent his days sitting at the bar, sipping in cold drinks. Every night, he contacted the New York office and reported his findings. His contact, Cedric, said the main office considered his work satisfactory, but to have her in direct contact would be a better option. Having her come to New York would be the best.

He was thinking about what he was going to do when he got back home, when Bernadette came up and deposited a glass of red wine in front of him. "On the house. For keeping me company this week."  
Rico was genuinely surprised by this generosity and held the stem of the glass so the wine danced and reflected in the California sun. "They say the Hamon masters of old could take the oxidation within wines and weaponize it. Liquid that cut like blades and burned like embers." He sipped as though he was a sommelier and placed the glass on the bar. "Thanks for the drink. Who knew a place like this could have so many bottles and brands."

Bernadette rested on the backbar and scanned the rows of spirits. "You inherit a place like this, and people come to expect a certain quality upgrade. When Leo sold me the bar, it was a bit of a dive. They had three beers on tap, and a bowl of nuts. One Bachelor's in Hospitality later, and I'd say this place looked a little better."  
"You went to college for hospitality?"  
"You know, when I said the wine was on the house, I didn't guarantee you'd get to finish it."  
Rico took a quick swig. "No no. It's a... good major. Good major."

Their conversation was held up as an entourage of travelers came in from the heat. They ordered up and took a seat at one of the wooden tables. One of them, dressed in a straw hat and too much suntan lotion, went over to the jukebox and selected a tune. The dulcet tones of "Norwegian Wood" entered the room.  
"Good song. You don't happen to have any rare CDs or records in the back, do you?"  
"I mean, I do have a collection, like everyone else. Any reason?"  
"Well, it concerns Puttin' On The Hits. You see, it has something to do with lyrics."  
"Well, I'll definitely take a look on the off hours."  
"Thanks."

Bernadette returned to her other patrons with their orders as Rico preoccupied himself with some card tricks. He unsheathed a fresh pack and set about shuffling them. He learned to do this trick in his spare time when not taking lessons from Lisa Lisa and set about perfecting it with Hamon. Lining the cards up, he stacked four in two standard upright formations and laid another card on top. Then, utilizing a grazing touch from his pinky finger, he zapped the construct with Hamon. He performed the same formation three more times, each construct getting a touch of Hamon, and moved onto the upper tier until there were two cards left to top the pyramid. One final Hamon shot and the tower was complete. Breathing deep into his gut, he raised his left hand and chopped down towards the stack at full forces. As predicted, the tower held firm against the strike and caused a dull pain in Rico's hand. He had gotten better at perfecting the Iron Fusion Overdrive, his strategic variation on the Life Magnetism Overdrive. Bernadette came over to see Rico clutching his hand.

"What happened to your hand? Get overexcited at your pyramid?"  
"You could say that, sure. Try and knock it over."

Bernadette casually laid into the counter and breathed softly on the paper to no effect. She exhaled again with more force. Still, the cards held. Bernadette reached under the bar and drew a bar spoon, a puzzled look turning to confidence. She wound up and slammed the spoon into the cards with such force, the metal bent and vibrated in her hand. Rico grinned with a sinister notion and was rewarded with a quick smack from the spoon on the top of the skull. "Ow! Take a joke, Bernadette, would you!?"

"You owe me a bar spoon and an explanation. Lemme guess. That Hamon nonsense?"  
"Yeah, yeah," he said, nursing his head. "A technique I've been crafting for quite some time now. Going on four years now. Basically, I flow a bit of energy from my Hamon into two objects, then ripcord the energy back out. The result is forced fusion The science is a bit fuzzy, but in short, I'm taking the the solid atomic structure of the playing cards and hitting it with supercharged energy, then removing the energy leaving the two objects to reform together."

Bernadette's interest was growing as the explanation went on. "Are you telling me you can infuse stuff on the fly? A lot of my customers are the... shall we say, they shoot straight and drink straight. But then you get some weird order and let me just say, hell freezes over when I can't fill that drink order. Some people can't just drink a beer. They want a cocktail, and not just any cocktail. They want a cocktail they had three years ago in Tampa on a cool 60* by the botanical gardens of their alma mater. They want that recreated scene in a dive bar that, while perfectly acceptable by locals and proud of it, is in the dead of California. You see where I'm going with this?"  
"Read you loud and clear. I suppose I could learn to work with fluid dynamics, but sadly cold fusion is still long off. And you don't have to be a bartender to know nobody wants a cocktail at the wrong temperature."  
"...Rico, I feel like you've been trying to sell me a story of snake oil with Stands and Hamon, but that is the truest shit you've said all week."  
"I try."

Rico pulled out a box of matches and was about to try and pull the same trick without igniting the match heads when the careening screech of tires could be heard from the parking lot. Everybody stood up as if there had been an accident, but the sound wasn't followed by anything more. The doors shut and steps could be heard as dress shoes clicked across the asphalt. The saloon door opened and there was a click that Bernadette had heard before and feared every time.

"GUN!"

She ripped Rico from his chair, slamming his knees into the end of the bar. Above his head, the sound of tommy guns soared across like stealth bombers across an empty sky.


End file.
